


To Kill the Queen

by BeeLine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 39,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19436335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeLine/pseuds/BeeLine
Summary: Arya Stark, the Hero of Winterfell, the Night King Slayer, has unfinished business. She needs to finish what she started all of those years ago; her kill list, and a Stupid Bull headed Baratheon Boy is not going to stop her. Is he? Fic takes place after the Battle of Winterfell, Arya on her journey to Kings Landing. Character arcs written as I wanted them to play out. A fair amount of smut.





	1. Chapter 1

**Arya**

Arya looked up at the ceiling staring unseeingly at the folds of grey fabric on the canopy from her position on the bed; chanting her list over and over as if a witch’s incantation.

“Cersei, Ilyn Payne, The Mountain… Cersei, Ilyn Payne, The Mountain.”

The remaining few persons on her originally lengthy list had been all she could think about since the massacre of the Long Night. All around her celebration rang throughout the halls of Winterfell, festivities lasting long into the early hours, raucous sounds of parties, drinking, sex and music filled the day and night air, celebrations of life after the onslaught of death, but Arya could not bring herself to join them. She had never been one for parties, formalities and crowds, preferring the comfort of her own company since she had been a child skulking around the hidden passages of the castle.

However this time, she hid away in the solitude of her chambers, focussing on her list, letting it occupy her mind, her body, and all of her energy.

_There would be time for celebrating later, once the golden head bitch who had been responsible for her father’s head had paid with her life._

“Cersei, Ilyn Payne, The Mountain, Cers…….” she stopped, a rush of inspiration came to her like a lightning bolt to her brain. _What am I still doing here? I need to strike now whilst the Iron is hot!_

_I’m going to kill the Queen._

She sprung off the mattress, changed into a new tunic, her excited fingers fumbling over the buttons, snatched up her travelling cloak and darted from the room, never giving her childhood quarters a backwards glance.

Silently as a shadow, she crept along the corridor that housed the private chambers of the Stark family. She had no doubt that they’d all be drinking in the merriment of the feast down in the Great Hall, but she did not want to risk being caught, dressed as she was, as she knew that it would incite many questions and potentially put a stopper in her plans. The braziers that lined the corridors of her home provided much warmth from the ensuing snow storm outside; Arya enjoyed the heat they gave off, wary of her shadows dancing along the cold stone walls of the castle, but thankful for the last bit of heat she would feel for some time. Although, the North was free of the threat beyond the wall, she knew that lighting fires in the wilderness was not wise as the forests and roads that led South were teaming with rapers, thieves and ne'er-do-wells.

Once she had made it to kitchens, she gathered up as many provisions as she could find for the journey and hastily shoved them into her heavy pack before bolting for the heavy wooden door shielding her from the bitter winter’s night.

She huddled under her cloak, burying her nose into the furs for warmth, allowing the hood to obscure her face. She did not wish to be spotted as she hurried towards the stable in the freshly fallen powdery snow.

Her heart did a somersault when she walked past the forge. She didn’t know if he’d be in there, but something told her that it was likely considering how things had ended between them earlier that evening. The Dragon Queen had made him the heir to the Storm-lands, and he was officially Lord Gendry Baratheon. The first thing he had done since staring awkwardly at the dais not knowing whether to be happy about this or not was to run and find Arya and tell her the ‘good news.’

The way he had looked at her with his hopeful azure eyes peaking out from under his charcoal hair still made her stomach flip but her wistful glance soon turned into a scowl, scrunching her nose up in annoyance at the _stupid_ way he had ruined the moment by proposing to her. He had thought rightly that he needed a bride to help him rule Storm’s End, but what had he been thinking asking Arya to be his _lady?_

_Did he think that his new title and lands would be enough to change her mind? After all this time, did he even know her at all?_

She had never cared for a fancy lord or a fancy home, she never played knights and ladies, only attended her embroidery classes by force from her mother, avoided her sister Sansa and always dreamt of riding off to battle with her brothers rather than waiting at home for a husband. _It just isn’t me,_ she thought, although a pang of sadness twinged in her gut as she strode past the forge, hearing the faint sounds of something heavy hitting the anvil. He had always taken his emotions out on the metal. Arya thought it would be very therapeutic to hit something really hard right now too, although for her it would be the face of her stupid bull headed boy. She continued in her stride, plodding on towards the stable, tacked her own horse and was readying herself to open the stable door when a familiar voice echoed in the soft light of the braziers.

Where do you think _you’re_ going?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Sansa**

Sansa stepped forward from the shadows allowing the brazier to illuminate her soft auburn waves, the light spilled over her strikingly beautiful face, highlighting the high arch of her razor sharp cheekbones and the brilliant blue of her piercing Tully eyes; the eyes of her mother.

S he looked upon her little sister with suspicion, her words rooting Arya to the spot like a naughty child who had been caught.

“I am going to ask you again, dear sister, where are you going?” she repeated pointedly at her sister, knowing full well that her being the Lady of Winterfell meant nothing to her sister when it came to providing the courtesy of an answer.

Seeing as she was getting nowhere with this line of enquiry she changed tact.

“Arya, its cold out here, are you going to stand here gawping at me or are you going to tell me where it is you plan on going at this time of night? Dear sister, there is food, wine and cheer to be had in the Great Hall, we have won the unimaginable, you thwarted the long thought unthwartable, the terror of these wild northern lands. Surely you can banish your love of solitude and raise a glass with our men?”

“You must _know_ Sansa, my mission is incomplete, you know enough about my list to know that there are three names left?” Arya hissed back at her. “These people need to pay for what they did to our family, or have you forgotten now that you have planted your feet firmly at the table, as the _Lady of Winterfell?”_ She furrowed her brow at her imposing sister, feeling her dark glare wash over her, feeling none of the ice in her cold eyes.

Sansa approached her sister  carefully ,  boring  unwaveringly into her steel grey eyes, eyes so unlike her own, and did not see an ounce of delight, warmth or happiness in there now that the Night King had been defeated by her own hand.  Instead she saw only  pain,  determination  with a hint of sadness. However, Arya’s soft round features did nought to give any of those feelings away. It was as if she was wearing a mask. 

“You know that is not true Arya,” Sansa stared at the hay strewn floor, breaking the ice and fire of the two girls glances. “You can’t possibly leave now Arya, its dark and its not safe to travel on your own at night, what would Jon say?” Sansa pleaded with her sister, still fearing for her safety, a high-born lady, whether she liked it or not, daring to venture forth into the grasp of danger willingly, still forgetting that the petite girl of six and ten standing before her was a well blooded killer.

Arya’s cold glare dropped at her sister’s words, instead the corners of her full lips upturned into a smirk “Sansa, don’t you think that we, as a family, have been through enough terrors now to know that the Stark’s can handle themselves?” she teased, as if admonishing her older sister. Sansa frowned at her, not wanting to admit that she knew that her little sister was the little girl she had been when they had left Winterfell for Kings Landing all those years ago. She was however still sullen, boyish and stubborn as a mule. The thought, however, did nought to dampen her spirited persistence.

“What would Lord Gendry say?” Sansa smirked at her sister knowingly, looking at her through her lashes, her full pout upturned in the same smirk that Arya had worn only moments earlier.

At this, Sansa had thought she had seen Arya blanche at the sound of his name, but if she had, she had hidden it well again, preferring to busy herself by hastily slinging the heavy pack over the back of her mare whilst a look of contemplation played about her face. Finally turning to Sansa, through a painted, cool unreadable look, Arya finally answered.

“Gendry understands, he knows me and he knows that my list is important to me. He knows not to get in my way.”

Sansa studied her sisters face for a sign, any sign of uncertainty but found none. Pushing aside her anger at her sister’s cold words about her station, She immediately rushed forward and tugged Arya into a fierce bear hug, kneeling to bury her face into her younger sister’s mousey brown locks, inhaling her scent, unsure if this was going to be the last time she would ever see her annoying little sister. It took her longer, but Arya placed her arms awkwardly around her sister’s waist and hugged her back, though not as tightly.

Finally, Sansa let go, tears filling her cerulean pools, as she watched her sister climb atop her mount and disappear into the night.

“Goodbye..” she breathed, her tears clouding her vision. Her heart shattered in that moment. They had never really gotten on as children, Sansa favouring the activities that their mother had steered her towards, Arya favouring the activities of her brothers. They did not understand each other, but in this moment, Sansa finally understood her sister, and her need to avenge their fallen family. If she hadn’t had to protect the North, Sansa would have gladly joined her sister, although she would have been of little use to her battle hardened sister. She would however have enjoyed watching the Lannister woman die screaming, Sansa’s face being the last thing she saw before the lights went out in her cold green eyes.

Staring into the black nothingness of the midnight sky, she no longer saw the outline of her sister, and so with a heavy heart, Sansa left the stables, closing the doors behind her when she saw the smiling face of her faithful squire Podrick. An idea came to her as soon as she had wiped the tears from her face.

“Pod, send for Sandor Clegane to meet me in my solar at once, I have a job for him.” With that, Sansa hurried for her chambers, lifting the skirts of her black gown high to avoid the salt staining the fabric, instructing a passing servant to ready The Hound’s horse and have a pack waiting for him on their return to the stables.


	3. Chapter 3

** Gendry **

The forge was ablaze with the fire of the new Lord Gendry Baratheon’s fury. From outside in the cold winter’s night, the stone structure looked as if it was burning from the inside out, the red and gold light flickering and illuminating the castle yard, putting the sporadic braziers around the court yard to shame. All of court were inside enjoying the feast, however the guards stationed at the gates were blinded by the glare spilling out between the gaps in the stone walls, and were deafened by the singing of the hammer on the anvil. None dared to enter the forge, fearing the wrath of whomever was inside working at this time of night.

Gendry was incandescent with rage as he took is vehemence out on the metal. To his side, on the work bench, was a beautiful silver band, shining luminously in the fires of the forge. It was perfectly round and smooth as silk, he had worked on it tirelessly since before the Long Night, since he laid his sapphire eyes on his lady again. _Mi’lady,_ he thought, tears of anger and rage leaving streaks down his sooty cheeks. The muscles on his chest, arms and stomach oscillated with every stroke of his hammer blows, the heat of the forge causing sweat to bead and fall in rivulets between each one; his body was streaked in sweat and soot, his blue eyes shining with ire.

He  had been in love with Arya Stark  since they  had travelled north together from Kings Landing with the Night’s Watch. Back then he had been just a bastard boy, an armourers apprentice, his wares admired by many, his pockets empty from his armourers ‘taxes’. He had barely known his mother  and had never known his father, not until he found himself in the clutches of the Red Woman, subject to her torture and evil plans to help Stannis Baratheon  usurp the current King of the Seven Kingdoms, King Joffrey.

She had been dressed as a street urchin, her hair cut severely short, tufts of it sticking out at odd angles, and an uneven fringe sweeping into her leaden eyes. Her clothes were baggy and dirty, covered in the red dust that coated the streets and buildings of Kings Landing. In her hand was a thin needle like sword and she had been pointing it at and glaring at two of the captured boys from the cells, one an impossibly large boy for a street rat, he assumed that he was a kitchen lad in one of the many baker ies in the town and the second, a scrawny, half-starved little weasel with white blonde hair. They had started the fight and she was finishing it, her steely eyed glare  pinning  the boys  to the ground where they stood.

She had introduced herself as Arry, and had given very little detail of her background to Gendry, but there was something about the ‘lad’ that didn’t fit the picture. He was short, too short really for a lad of eleven, his voice although understandably high for his young age had an air of authority and the language and accent he used certainly was not of a lad from Flea Bottom.

His posture was off, his hips too wide and his waist to narrow for a lad. He knew then and there that Arry was masquerading as a boy and was indeed a young girl. He could tell, it became even more apparent to him by the way the ‘lad’ would disappear off for a piss in the woods away from the rest of the men. He had of course kept her secret, it was safer in the world to travel as a man. Fortunately for her, the rest of the men remained ob l ivious.

She had captured his attention immediately, by her confidence, her arrogance and her immaturity. He enjoyed the way she fought against anyone and anything. She fought against Gendry a lot, although he would often tease her mercilessly to infuriate her on purpose. She was very slight and didn’t look strong but on many occasions she had succeeded in bowling him over like he was a nought but a feather in the wind.  She was wild, and he liked that about her. 

He was shocked when she confided in him that she was Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell. His mind raced over the months on the road together. They had bathed together, slumbered together, he’d pissed in front of her. He was mortified that he had behaved so in front of a Lady of a great house. She however, was not at all vexed. She only became so when he insisted on calling her  _Mi’lady_ . She had pushed him backwards into a tree for that, landing squarely and heavily on his backside, staring up at her incredulously, a warm feeling spreading from his heart down to below his waist. 

After their monstrous stay at Harrenhall and their heroic escape from the Lannister/Bolton clutches, he had fallen head over heels for her. She had grown into a young woman of three and ten by then, and you could tell she was blooming into womanhood. It was no longer a secret to Hot  P ie when they reached the crossroad inn, as he was staring openly and in shock at her blossoming bosom. The oaf still called her Arry, but Arya didn’t seem to mind. He loved that about her. 

Three years had past since that fateful day when their paths had diverged. He would always remember her words,  _ I can be your family, _ as if a despairing whisper, blowing forth from her lips, her eyes pleading with him in desperation. He was torn in two, he had a place within the Brotherhood without Banners, he could earn his way up into being a hedge knight, being of some importance to the world, maybe one day being good enough for the woman he loved standing there before him in that cave, crying silently at him.  He could not go with her to her brother Robb’s encampment. He would never be accepted by the King in the North as a man worthy of his sister’s hand. He would more likely be imprisoned and murdered for being his sister’s captor, because he was a lowly bastard boy from the arse end of the world.  All he wanted to do in that moment was hold her, tell her it would all be ok, and that he’d be with her again someday. He wanted to cup her face, run his hands through her hair, raise her chin to his face and press his lips to hers in a passionate kiss. He knew he would never get the chance to show her he loved her in other ways and would never despoil her, but he always had the images in his mind of what he would do if she were his. 

He was captured not long after that by the Red Woman,  sold on by the Brotherhood for coin like cattle. The image of Arya standing there under the forest canopy crying her eyes out, stamping her feet and balling her fists as she wept for the loss of her  best friend was burned into his brain. He’d never forget the pain in her eyes and on her beautiful face as he was dragged away, chained to the back of a wagon, certain that she would never forgive him for leaving her. He wasn’t sure he would ever forgive himself.

One of the  best day s of his life had been when Arya Stark walked back into his life, through the forge doors at Winterfell. She had watched him with a curiosity and an intensity that bordered on the perverse. He had noticed the way her eyes has followed the line of his strong right arm hammering the metal, watching the curve of his  flexing bicep,  following every bead of sweat rolling over hi s rippling pectorals, and his taught stomach to the waistband of his breeches. He remembered how he’d got hard at just her gaze,  her lust filled eyes boring into his soul. He’d taken his time crafting her weapon just to make her wait,  to  drive her crazy, and entice her to the forge so he could lay his eyes on his Princess one more time. 

Gendry allowed his mind to wander just then, only for a second, disrupting his anger with the memory of Arya on his lips, his tongue, on his length, only the night before. He had shown his Princess how much he’d loved her in every way a man can. He craved her, he could taste her sweet mouth, the perk of her breasts, the salt of her skin at her stomach, the sweet nectar between her legs. He’d loved her, taken her virtue, given her everything he had, fought for her, almost died for her, gave his heart to her, and then… then she’d taken his heart and tor n it in two.

_ ARRRRRGHHHHHHH!  _ Gendry bellowed with all of his might, bringing his hammer arm down so hard on the metal that he felt the wooden handle break and send a shock wave up his arm to his shoulder and down to his heart.

“FUCK, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” He threw the broken handle of his hammer into the furnace and proceeded to kick his work station to  pieces , the silver ring flew through the air and landed on the cold stone floor,  next to where his heart lay. 

_Did you really think she would say yes? You deluded fool, she had said since the day you found out who she was that she was no lady, and you go and ask her to be the Lady of Storms End? Did you think you could change her mind? YOU? The bastard boy from Flea Bottom – come Lord only because King Robert fucked your mother like a common harlot?_

Exasperated and exhausted he dropped to the floor, broken, staring down at the misshapen stones wreathing the perfect silver ring he had made for his Lady. The ring that he was going to place on her finger on their wedding day. It stared up at Gendry as if he were a fool.

_Oh I am but a fool, to try and tame her, the wild wolf-girl. My wild wolf-girl._

The forge door opened with a  creak  and Gendry looked up with a start, staring  up at the poised form of Lady Sansa Stark in the door frame, looking startled by the noises and the curses coming from her castle forge and her smith.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sansa**

“Lord Baratheon, I am sorry to disturb you at such an hour as this, but I could not help but hear the commotion in my forge. I would ask you the meaning behind your outburst?”

She gazed at the blacksmith turned Lord, and saw nought but despair and grief in the young man’s eyes. Quickly closing the door behind her to keep this moment away from prying eyes, she hurried over and knelt at his side, waiting for him to respond, her small but comforting hand placed on the shoulder closest to her.  Always the proper Lady, Sansa had learned her courtesies well, however, this late in the hour, and after this harrowing a day and raw this scene before her, she forgot herself, dropped her prim ways and comforted the young Lord at her feet.

His shoulders heaved, his face was buried between his knees once again, and great racking sobs were echoing around the sweltering cavern. She was shocked at the sight; never in her fairy tales, her songs and poems about strong knights and their maidens fair did the knight fall at their feet, crying into their breeches. She could not once remember her father crying, her brothers only cried when they were children if they had been hurt training, or unhorsed whilst riding or jousting. But never had she seen a man crying in private and for no obvious reason. 

She waited patiently for the sobs to stop, rubbing his shoulders and humming under her breath a soothing song her mother had once sang her to sleep with after a particularly harrowing nightmare.

Soon enough, the sobs died in Gendry’s throat, the heaving of his shoulders ceased and he looked up into Sansa’s blue eyes, his own red and puffy eyes pleadingly looking at her for words of comfort. He half laughed in embarrassment at her, he waved his hands at her as if to say  _ this is me, this is what you get. _ He had been seen at his most vulnerable and he knew now that he had very little left to hide.

“Gendry,” Sansa broke the silence, forgetting formalities entirely, staring at the sadness in his sapphires, “Gendry, what happened?”

“You have been legitimised, you have taken back the seat of your House, your House now lives on through you, surely this is a happy time for you?”

Gendry looked away again trying to muster the strength to expose how he felt to the sister of the woman he loved.  Feigning composure he remembered his newly learned courtesies and replied, trying to keep his voice from cracking.

“It is a great honour, mi’lady. However  the honour that was given to me is nothing without  _ her.” _

Sansa did not need to ask who he was referring to, she had known from the first time she had spied Arya and Gendry together that he was smitten, however she had not realised how smitten he was.

“I asked her to marry me,” he tailed off staring into the abyss of the furnace, wishing it to swallow him up, envelope him in fiery oblivion.

Sansa sucked in her breath as realisation struck. So that is why Arya was so keen to get away. It wasn’t just about her list. She could not handle Gendry right now, she had obviously tried to let him down as gently as she could. Sansa had always known that Arya had no interest in being some Lord’s wife and the mother to all of his children. She knew from and early age how wild she had been, how she had longed for adventure over tradition.

However Sansa could tell how hard her younger sister had fallen for Gendry. It was obvious, the way she skulked around the castle, always spending her days in his company at the forge, always pulling faces when the serving girls in the castle fawned over him, when the tavern wenches outright propositioned him. She knew just how hard it would have been for Arya to turn him down they way she did. Duty was the death of love, and in Gendry’s case, that had come to pass.  She’d guessed that Gendry’s new title was the end of their relationship. She never wanted to be a Lady.

Sansa’s eyes returned to  him, but suddenly fell to a shining object on the floor before them. Slowly bending down to pick it up, she noticed that it was a beautifully crafted silver band, polished until it reflected the blue in her eyes. She stared at it in wonder, turning it into the light to admire its simple beauty. Her stomach twisted and tears pricked her eyes; she felt his loss, he really did love her.

Suddenly, she turned on her heel and grabbed Gendry by the shoulders, hauling him up to his feet.

“You have to go after her!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Sandor**

The tall and imposing figure of Sandor Clegane swept through the halls of the castle as he made his way to the stables of Winterfell. Although he was never one for merriment or parties, he had rather enjoyed this one. He had just sunk into his third wineskin of the evening, the heady mix of alcohol on his tongue and tales from the battle field in his ears made him relax, and he was just starting to have a good time. He never really enjoyed company, but he was rather entertained by Tormund Giantsbane, the big ginger cunt that he’d endured over the wall. He was making a pass at the tallest woman in the room, and quite possible the most aloof and unavailable woman in the room; Brienne of Tarth. Brienne of Fucking Tarth, the leading lady in some of his nightmares. Of course he’d try it on with Brienne of Fucking Tarth.

_Crazy fucker, she’ll eat you alive and fuck herself with your bones._

He chuckled to himself at that one. She may be an ugly wench but she could handle herself with a sword, and the way she and the Kingslayer were mooning at each other all night, he knew if they hadn’t already, she’d be bouncing up and down on his golden prick by the end of the party.

Tormund the giant fucker never stood a chance.

His merriment was brought to an end the second he saw Podrick running up to him with vigour. _Seven Hells_ _, what do they need me for now? Can’t a man drink until his eyes go crossed and stumble into his chambers to collapse until sun up anymore?_ That had been his plan until the big woman’s puny squire showed up.

“What the fuck do you want?” he grunted. Podrick ignore his ire, instead relaying Lady Sansa’s message. “Ah I see, you’ve become the Lady of Winterfell’s new whipping boy, well why don’t you give her a message from me, tell her she can wait until I’ve drank my fill.”

Podrick stood there glaring at him. “As a guest are you not obliged to do the Lady of the Castle’s bidding, _My Lord.”_ Clearly his work experience with Tyrion the Imp had rubbed off on him; it had helped him grow a sturdy backbone.

“I’ll oblige her with my presence when I’m good and ready, now FUCK OFF!” Sandor delighted in his ability to make them shake in their boots and shit in their pants at the same time. He was an obedient dog however, he’d scare the squires, the servants and the like to keep them _loyal,_ then he’d go and do their bidding when they weren’t looking.

He stood up staring after the squire, opened his mouth and bellowed, “Oh and if you’re planning on fucking her, might I suggest a change of small clothes first!”

That’d serve the little shit right, it was obvious how he felt about his new liege lady and Sandor exploited it for all it was worth. Sure enough, Podrick turned the deepest shade of crimson, deeper than that of the Lannister sigil, and made for the door as quickly as he could.

He strode out of the room, his cloak flapping at his heels as he walked the corridors to the tower where the Stark’s called home.

A guard was stationed at her door when he rounded the corner to her chambers, and through gritted teeth he boomed, “Lady Stark is expecting an audience with me in her Solar.”

The guard looked at him suspiciously for one moment, then stepped aside to allow his passage. He immediately stepped into the solar, a big round stone room with a desk and chair in one corner and a huge crackling fire in the hearth in the other. Lady Stark was sitting on a chaise staring at the fire when he walked in; she only looked up when he cleared his throat, announcing his presence.

“Ah Lord Clegane, I was expecting you, thank you for pleasure of your company,” she murmured. _Always so polite_ he thought. _Indeed the little bird grew up and flew home._

His reply was a grunt.

“I have an urgent favour to ask of you,” these words sparked his attention, “My sister, Lady Arya has just this evening left our home and set out for Kings Landing,” _I’m not liking where this is going,_ “I need your assistance; please ride after her in haste, I feel that you will at the very least be able to keep her safe if you cannot convince her to return to the relative safety of our home.”

He stared incredulously at her, or however he could arrange his scarred leathery old face to manage a look of incredulity. He threw his head back and laughed, gales of laughter emitted from his heavy jaw, his deep voice booming each wave of mirth like the very canons stationed atop the walls of her castle.

“You’re saying, _Lady Stark,_ that you want me to chase after your murderous little sister, the cold-hearted wolf bitch who left me to die not 3 years ago having robbed me of my gold, so that I can somehow try and change her mind about killing the most evil woman in the Seven Kingdoms, the cunt who stood by and orchestrated the deaths of most of your family. Really, is that what you’re asking of me?” Sansa bristled at the curses.

“I know it sounds a little far-fetched of me to suggest, and rather a lot to ask, but...”

He cut her off abruptly, never being one for manners, “A lot to ask? Too fucking right its a lot to ask Little Bird” She stiffened at his old nickname for her, but brushed it off wanting not to bite the hand that might potentially feed.

She changed tact. “All of the time I have known you I have watched on as your vengeance for your brother has grown. Of course it has, he took your family from you, he took your appearance from you, the very mention of his name ignites a rage in you, it is plain to see; its all over your face,” Sandor’s nostrils flared in anger at her words, “So to speak,” she added quickly, failing to avoid offence. “I see that same look in Arya’s face now, its consuming her, and I fear she will let her lust for revenge take over her life, the way it has for you. I can’t let that happen, Damn it, I WILL NOT let that happen.” She and the Hound stared dumbstruck at each other, both of them surprised by her curses and her outburst.

“She may not want to stay here, or go to Storm’s End and be Lady Baratheon, but I don’t want her to become and empty shell. A shadow of herself, consumed by rage, grief and vengeance. I just want her to be free of it all. To finally be happy.”

_She’s serious._

He shrugged his huge shoulders and stared aghast into the flames, unseeingly. Finally he made his choice.

“Aye Lady Sansa, I will protect your sister. But if she bites, know that I will bite back harder!” he half laughed.

“I would expect nothing less, Lord Sandor.”

That conversation swirled around his head as he mounted his stallion, and rode off into the night heading for the Stark bitch, either that or the wine was, he couldn’t tell which.


	6. Chapter 6

**Arya**

The wind whistled through the trees under the unyielding stare of the milky moon, the last of the Autumn leaves swirled red, gold and amber around the legs of Arya’s mare as she galloped through the powdery snow coating the King’s Road. She had imagined that the main road leading South would be fairly safe considering the immediate population had flocked to Winterfell to protect the rest of the Seven Kingdoms from the oncoming dead.

The night was clear and the blanket of stars twinkling above her head illuminated the road ahead, the cold crisp breeze stung her face but she didn’t care; it felt like home, she would relish it with every mile she raced.

She kept her pace even, racing into the inky blackness of the wilderness; the forest shrouding her all of a sudden from the light of the moon. Fearless, she pressed on, knowing she could not stop until she had passed through the wilds of the trees, a popular hideout for the most cunning of bandits. The closer to the middle of the wood, the trees became denser, the branches whipping at her clothes, her face and her hair. She heard the fabric tear and pull under the grip of their viney tendrils but she minded not, she had no interest in her appearance unlike her fair sister. Her mother had always scolded her for her appearance, her unruly hair tied loosely in a braid most of the time, scruffily tucked behind her ears so it did not impede her when sword-fighting or riding with her brothers. She’d regularly come home with grass stains, on her muddy breeches, rips and tears to the shirts she would pilfer from Robb or Bran and her mother would shriek at her endlessly, threatening to pack her off to the oldest, fattest or sternest Lord in the Seven Kingdoms to teach her how to behave like a ‘proper lady.’ However, her father would simply chuckle to himself over her shoulder, just in line with Arya’s gaze, a look of pride glazing his face. She was more like him and her aunt Lyanna with every passing day.

Pressing on until she found herself bathed in moonlight again, Arya started her search to find somewhere safe to set up camp. She dismounted, taking her horse by the reins and leading her into a clearing away from the main road in a position where she could see all around her. There, she lashed her horse to a particularly gnarled looking tree, and set to camp, collecting firewood and unrolling her furs. It was going to be a damp and chilly night by all accounts.

With the chunk of dragon glass in hand, she set to sparking the kindling, and soon had a roaring fire going. Sitting by it, feeling the warmth of the flames licking her face, she sank back against the old tree, wrapping her furs around her, feeling as though she had just sunk into a hot bath. She unfurled her rations; a chunk of bread, salted pork and cheese that she had sought from the castle kitchens, and chewed noisily, savouring the taste, knowing that her meals from then on were going to be a lot less frequent, and a lot less delicious. The warm buzz of a full stomach lulled her into a light sleep, and she lay back, using a tree root and her cloak as a pillow to look at the stars.

The twinkling jewels hypnotised her, she saw all the colours of the rainbow, and finally, when she let her vision blur slightly, she thought she could see new stars form, and old distant stars grow faint; _a never ending cycle of life and death. The story of our lives mapped out in the heavens._

Her mind began to wander as her eyelids became heavy, succumbing to an almost dreamlike state. She thought about those she had left up at the castle. In her haste she had not said her goodbyes to Jon, a heavy feeling in her gut replaced the warmth from her supper. His words still echoed in her head, _My name – my real name that is, is Aegon Targaryen._ He was her cousin, not her brother, the son of her aunt Lyanna. It was in that instance, in the Godswood back in Winterfell, that she realised something that she had known all along; _that’s why we were always so alike in mind, look and spirit. We both favour Lyanna Stark._ That feeling of being an outcast from her younger days dissipated instantly; she was more Stark than the rest of them. The spirit of the Wolf lived on in Arya and Jon.

It hardly mattered to Arya anyhow, Jon would always be her brother, no matter their parentage. She still worried for her brother like a little sister would, and she worried that following his heart would turn out to be a big mistake. Jon, Sansa, Bran, they were pack, you could sense it in them. Danaerys felt wrong, she was not pack.

Her mind grew dim, her eyelids heavy, she finally drifted into a dream. She was running, running at the battlements of a great city, it wasn’t clear exactly where, but the walls were heavily guarded and a great golden army stood ready to strike. She could smell the blood, the piss and the fear, and she liked it. Her nose twitched, she began to salivate as she barrelled straight for the enemy. Three steps and she was on them, ripping off limbs, tearing out throats, taking enemies, two, three, four at a time. She licked her lips, the blood and gore washing over her tongue sending her taste buds into a frenzy, making her stomach growl and igniting the fire deep in her belly for more. Then came the dragon, the huge fearsome beast soaring through the air, her mother on her back heading for the castle. The castle was familiar, she did not know why, but she saw it as if in her own minds eye and still the dragon hurtled for it. Its eyes narrowed, its mouth opened, its chest rumbled, an ear splitting shriek came from the castle as the tallest towers engulfed in flame.

She awoke with a start, her breathing hard and fast, sweat plastering her mousey hair to her forehead. The enormity of her dream hit her in the face like a hammer. Looking around wildly, she took in her surroundings, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Her fire was long burned out, and she shivered under her furs as another frigid breeze rolled over her and her makeshift camp.

_What’s that sound?_

Her senses went into overdrive, the scent of wood smoke still strong enough to taste, the perpetual darkness of the imposing forest, the feel of the damp forest floor and the dew soaking into her cloak.

_But what is that sound?_

Narrowing her eyes, shielding her cold, damp body from the elements, she slowly stood up, her left hand reaching for her sword, her breath catching in her throat.

The unmistakable sound of hooves echoed through the forest as the mysterious rider drew nearer to Arya and her camp. Quick as a snake, quiet as a shadow, she hid behind the nearest tree, cursing herself that she hadn’t had time to tear down her camp. She unsheathed her sword, breathing hard, her warm breath steaming in front of her face.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords, be calm as still water._ She held her breath.

The rider in the night stepped down from his steed, a massive boot striking the earth, sending out a small shockwave that Arya felt not five paces away. He looked around her camp after tying up his horse, searching  her belongings and muttering under his breath, his voice low. Arya felt a wave of anger sweep over her, she felt violated watching his huge dirty hands manhandle her furs, her cloak. Her grip tightening on her sword, her knuckles turning white, her eyes narrowed in anger.

The rider stopped what he was doing, his eyes fixed on her pack and her cloak, his lop-sided mouth twisted into a malevolent grin. Arya stiffened.

“Come out, come out wherever you are, little Stark bitch”


	7. Chapter 7

**Gendry**

_You have to go after her_

The words, raced each other around his head as he lurched from one foot to the other, dazedly making his way to the chamber adjoining the forge. The small dimly lit cell behind the furnace was Gendry’s private quarters, although cramped, was always very warm from the heat emanating through the bricks. It suited Gendry just fine, the heat providing him the home comforts of the South that he had grown up with and had become accustomed to. Winterfell, although extremely beautiful, was not to his taste weather wise. He was always cold, even more so since he had cut his ebony hair short, the furs, leathers, gloves and cloaks never quite thick enough to shield his body from the bitter conditions. The Lady of Winterfell had offered him finer accommodations within the castle, that were befitting the station of Master Smith, however he had politely declined in favour of this cell; no matter how well insulated and heated the castle’s walls had been from the infamous hot springs in the grounds, no where was warmer than this cell. 

Nothing would usually make Gendry think about leaving the warmth of his quarters, especially on as a bitter a night as this. Nothing, no-one, except Arya. He had promised never to leave her again, not since the last time, when he had been sold to the red woman by the brotherhood and even then it was not by choice. He had chastised himself for letting them take him, even though he had been barely a man grown back then and hardly in a position to stop the red woman’s guards from manhandling him into the back of the wagon. But still, he’d never forgiven ten and nine year old Gendry. Three and Twenty year old Gendry, on the other hand, had the strength of three men and an oxen, and he was not going to let his lady love get away so easily this time; even if she had refused to marry him, he would stay by her side until his dying breath.

He hurriedly packed, hastily stuffing a spare shirt, tunic, breaches and small clothes into a large pack he had place precariously on his cot. He piled some food he had foraged from the feast on top and set about strapping his war hammer to his back, finally sweeping his furs and cloak around him, before striding for the door to the forge.

Gendry stiffened as his face was blasted by the frigid winds outside in the courtyard. Furrowing his brow, pulling his furs up around his face and wearing his hood low he hurried over to the stables, strapped his meagre supplies to a large destrier, tacked it and hauled himself up onto the saddle, swinging his bulky leg out behind him with one foot on the left stirrup, supporting his weight with his hands, and bringing his right foot into the other stirrup whilst coordinating his right heel to meet the flank of the black-as-night steed. 

The horse immediately sprang to action, bolting for the castle gates and out into the night.

Gendry had never been accustomed to riding horseback. He kept low in his saddle, holding on as if for dear life as his horse thundered down the Kings Road towards the forest, silhouetted against the night’s sky. The night was still and eerie, a frost settling over the land, the crunch of the horses hooves on impacted snow the only sound that cut the silence.

_ She cant be that far away, she only set off at dusk.  _ He looked around wildly in between the densely packed trees of the forest, looking for any sign of a camp or a fire. The snow had fallen thick and heavy, any tracks left by Arya were well and truly covered, however he knew he’d catch up with her eventually. He had a sixth sense when it had come to the wolf girl. Although she moved with grace and silence thanks to her years of training with the Faceless Men of Braavos, he had always felt a prickle in the back of his neck, the hairs standing up on end, when she was in his presence. It was as she was a predator much like her sigil, her luminescence called to him, her smell, the way she moved, were like a siren-song, and he, the unwitting prey was eternally lured to her, as if a ship to the rocks, and its doom.

Pressing on, the never ending darkness doing nought for his hope of finding her for some time, he let his mind wander again, wondering how she would react to his presence.

Would she be angry that he’d followed her? Relieved that he had? Would she admonish him and call him a stupid bull, the way she always did after they had fought many moons past when they were youngsters finding their way to safety? Or would she simply ignore him or send him away, her need for him to keep her safe diminished now that she was an accomplished warrior and assassin? 

His brow furrowed again in frustration, and he shook his head angrily to chase away the negative thoughts plaguing him, almost succeeding in their plight to force him to turn the destrier around and return home, tail between his legs.

Instead he let his thoughts drift onto her, his princess, the love of his desolate life. He thought again about their night together in the forge, about her radiant round face staring down at him hungrily, the breathy growls she had made as she sank onto his painfully erect cock, the supple skin of her pert behind grazing his thighs as she slowly rotated her hips on her ascent back up to her knees and the way her glistening body had looked in the light of the furnace, beads of sweat rolling from her neck between her perky breasts running down to her navel and disappearing between their conjoined nethers’. She was ethereal, a goddess taking what she desired wantonly, fiercely and without hesitance. She had been so beautiful, and Gendry had fallen helplessly under her spell.

Later, entwined under his furs, he had watched her breathing as if asleep, watching the firelight dance off her hair and her milky complexion, knowing that his lady was also lying awake, contemplating the forthcoming battle. He had thought then, that if they were to survive the night, he would endeavour to spend every night of his until the end of his days entwined with her, watching her breathe, watching her until he succumbed to his own slumber.

His thoughts warmed him through, despite the biting cold battering his body, a familiar fire growing in his belly, his cheeks aflame, his member struggling against the confines of his laces. Would she greet him hungrily, like the wanton little wolf tease of his daydreams?

The destrier ploughed on into the night, turning him this way and that under the canopy, following the curve of the road until he came to the end of the wood, where happened upon a set of horse shoe prints. Gendry climbed down from atop his horse and knelt into the snow beside the prints, noting their stark outlines against the impacted snow, and the clarity of the night sky, only light snow making a steady assault onto the ground.

_These prints are fresh._

Without hesitance he tied his horse to the nearest tree and followed the path made by the prints through more sparse trees until he eventually came to a large clearing. Crouching behind one of the trees he looked from one end of the clearing to the other searching for signs of movement, of life. He found it. Away in the far corner of the clearing he saw clearly the dark outline of a great lumbering man stooped by the remnants of what appeared to be a makeshift camp. Gendry crept around the circumference of the clearing, keeping to the trees, whilst watching the man, careful not to make a sound lest the man turn and strike him. He didn’t have time to feel elated when he saw the outline of his beloved pinned behind the tree closest to the camp before he heard the words that made his heart sink.

“Come out, come out wherever you are, little Stark bitch”

All thoughts of an amorous reunion went out of the window.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sandor**

He’d sensed the camp some time back. He could smell it stronger with every league he crossed, the smoke weaving between the trees, enticing his nose and eliciting a tingling on his taste buds as he sniffed out its source.

His stomach growled, as he pushed on through the trees, only realising his hunger again since his supper of roast chicken and mead. He hoped he’d find whoever had started the fire had a few rashers of bacon or a fat juicy sausage with his name on it. He’d skewer them with his sword if they declined anyhow.

Creeping towards the edge of the forest, he looked around, checking the coast was clear and that no little pig fuckers had slinked up beside or behind him to accost him before leaving the shadow of the vines. Finding that he was indeed alone, he ventured forth.

The smell of smoke was stronger out in the clear starry night, and over by a further encirclement of trees he saw the stream of smoke wafting towards him. The patch of trees was sparse however, and not wanting to attract attention, he climbed down from his steed and, taking the reins in one giant hand, he proceeded towards the source of the smoke, his horse in tow.

Leading his horse to the west of the encampment, away from the road and out of sight of prying eyes, he tied the reins to the trunk of a sturdy looking tree and advanced through the trees until he stumbled across a large clearing, the smoke more concentrated now, and stinging his eyes. There was no sound, or signs of life around the remnants of the fire as he approached, great sword unsheathed and glinting in the moonlight. Sweeping the perimeter one more time, he knelt before the fire, lowering his sword to the dewy ground, and unsheathing a gloved hand before lowering it over the burnt out fire. It was still warm.

Furtively looking around once more, he noticed that the patch of grass by the old oak next to the fire was flattened and it too still felt warm.

_Someone’s here. Someone is still here._

The air smelled vaguely of flowers, roses Sandor thought as he edged further away from the smoke of the fire, he noted that not a flower seemed to be adorning the fringes of the camp. It was then he knew she was there. His features relaxed, the corner of his scarred line of a mouth curled up in a smirk and he let forth a quiet snort of laughter.

“Come out, come out wherever you are, little Stark bitch”


	9. Chapter 9

**Arya**

The leaves crunched under the stranger’s feet in the clearing; with each step he took it felt to Arya as if the ground was shaking. Her breath hitched in her throat, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as her fight or flight reactions kicked in. She cursed herself inwardly, _No one_ would not quake in her boots like a green maiden so why was Arya Stark, the Wolf Princess of the North?

_Because you’re weak, you didn’t have the discipline to succeed at the House of Black and White, what makes you think you have the strength and wherewithal to brazenly enter the Red Keep and assassinate the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?_

Swallowing the lump rising in her throat and  gingerly wiping the sleep from her eyes,  she tentatively fingered the dire wolf pommel of her newly forged great sword and strained her ears in the dead silence of the night for a clue as to the identity of her mystery  assailant .

Her back to the oak, she shimmied herself around the great gnarled trunk as far as she dared in order to catch a glimpse of the intruder in her peripheral sight. All she saw was a huge cloaked figure bent low over her camp site a gain . She only knew of two people that it could possibly be judging by the sheer mass of the man in front of her, and she hoped it was the less murderous brother.

“Come out, come out wherever you are, little Stark bitch”

The relief that surged through Arya as soon as she heard the gruff, scratchy voice of Sandor Clegane, washed over her like a tsunami. She let out the breath that she was holding, her shoulders immediately dropped and her defensive stance that she was holding rigid relaxed as the thunderous tone of his voice sounded like music to her ears.

Stepping out from behind the oak, sword now in her hand pointing at the looming silhouette of Sandor Clegane, Arya finally spoke up,

“Bit late for a wolf hunt isn’t it?” she teased in a calming tone, the pace of her heart finally catching up with her words.

“The feast was as dull as arse, I figured there was some adventure to be had when I found the stable door wide open, the horse bolted.” Clegane replied flatly staring at the grime that clung to the underside of his finger nails, paying Arya no special attention.

“A lie,” Arya tossed back, playing the game of faces with him, goading him to the truth.

“Your bastard crow of a brother...” he began, instantly being cut off by the sharp tongue of the smallest but fiercest member of house Stark.

“Also a lie, mayhaps we can have the truth now, Clegane?” she looked up at him serenely, a smirk playing on her lips, enjoying watching the great beast of a man sweat before her.

Exasperated, the huge man bent, beaten by the quick witted young lady, “The little bird was worried for her sister’s safety, wolf girl,” he retaliated, “you left with quite some haste!” he added quickly, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Ah, and there it is, the truth, how sweet a thing to hear these days, cloaked and nestled in between the lies they try to fool us with,” she laughed mercilessly, “I knew you had not suddenly harboured care for me in your heart Hound!”

“I haven’t a fucking clue what you are banging on about,” again not meeting her eyes, the lack of exchange speaking volumes to Arya who was smirking at him knowingly. “I was following orders.”

“Following orders indeed! You stopped following orders the day you told the bastard Lannister King where to go and fuck himself!” Arya threw her head back and cackled at her own jape, her shoulders heaving, tears pricking in her eyes as she looked back at the Hound, the menace in his eyes starting to build up again.

“Fuck off, I don’t have to take this shit from you, wench,” he threw his hands up in the air, looking around him with renewed exasperation, “are you at least going to fucking tell me where you think you’re going, or do I have to start beating it out of you? Got anything to do with that Baratheon Bastard?” he managed through great snorts of laughter from the wolf princess.

Wiping her eyes unceremoniously with the sleeves of her oversized shirt, her laughter died in her throat, the jovial glint in her eyes replaced with a cool glare as she thought about her next words carefully.

“The Lion still awaits her end on my sword.”

Clegane’s eyes darted back to Arya once more, he could not hide the look of incredulity seeping over his ruined face, his grey eyes wide, his mouth open in surprise, “You cannot possibly mean to continue that fucking list of yours, that was a fools errand if ever there was one.”

“Is she dead?”

“Well, no, no the golden cunt still lives.”

“Then my work continues,” Arya stated as if it was the only thing in the world that made any sense.

“And how do you plan on getting through the gates, your work gonna cover that?” he goaded, not even attempting to hide his mirth for her plan.

“The Targaryen queen along with my brother and her armies will march South in a few days time. The Lannister queen will use that time to call forth the people of Kings Landing and the surrounding lands up until the borders of the Trident and the Reach to take shelter in the city and through the gates to the Red Keep. I mean to disguise myself as such a peasant and take shelter within the Red Keep itself until the time is right to strike.” she divulged her plan coolly, as if it were that simple. 

“The Gold Cloaks will spot you a mile away, they know Arya Stark of Winterfell,” Clegane pointed out smugly thinking he had spotted the chink in her armour.

“I won’t _be_ Arya Stark of Winterfell,” as if that made any sense, “besides, the Gold Cloaks will be too busy shitting in their own pants to notice me, when they spot the oncoming storm from the North and the Dragons breathing fire in their faces,” she retorted, satisfied with her own flawless plan, “I suppose you’re here to try and bloody ruin it now, they’re more likely to notice me now, flanked by your great ugly mug,” she continued bitterly, clicking her tongue and rolling her steel grey eyes. Clegane’s eyes narrowed at her, the smug look gone and replaced with a look of annoyance. 

“I won’t need to ruin anything, its a great steaming turd of a plan,” his reply as biting as the frigid cold gnawing at their skins. He looked away and began busying himself with the building of the campfire whilst Arya stood defiantly, staring down in disbelief at the giant of a man.

“And I suppose you have a better plan?”

“Yeah, go the fuck home and live the remainder of this miserable life, on your own.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because they FUCKING KILLED MY FAMILY, SANDOR! Do you know what that _feels_ like? To know that the murderer of the people you loved the most, still lives, breathes, and shits whilst they are lying cold in the ground?” she was in his face now, her eyes wide, her arms flailing around wildly and her eyebrows knitted together in fury. Her breathing was erratic, her face was puce and she looked as if she were holding back the temptation to throw wild blows at his nose. 

Clegane swung round, like a coil had snapped deep within and he was up on his feet bearing down on Arya; she backed away from him until her heels met knotted tree roots, looking up at his face, a tempest of raw emotion and anger as he delivered his final blow,

“Yes _I_ do, _Wolf Bitch_ , I fucking do, the man who murdered my mother, my father and my siblings still lives. I’ve wanted to rip the very soul out of him every day that the miserable cunt still breathes, I want to tear his bones out through his skin, pull his spine out through his arse and make him drown in his own blood as I ram my sword down his throat. He’s never been a brother of mine.” spittle mixed with the sweat from his top lip as he slavered over his chin spilling down on to his tunic before he had a chance to wipe himself with the back of his sleeve. 

Still glaring at her, incensed, his eyes aglow with the fire of all seven hells, he exhaled sharply as if letting a great burden fall from his shoulders to the floor. After his eyes returned to grey from the obsidian daggers that had bored themselves deep into Arya’s steely glare, he eventually turned back to campfire where he picked up and slammed down a handful of firewood on to the campfire. He knelt down beside the pile and lit the kindling that Arya threw down in her own wrath. The fire soon roared to life, and the both of them sat in silence staring at the flames licking up into the night. 

“The Mountain is in Kings Landing, protecting the Queen,” Arya stated monotonously, not taking her eyes off the fire, the warmth washing over her bones once more as she sat with her arms tucked over her knees.

“I guess that means you’re coming with me,” it wasn’t a question.

She didn’t receive an answer. She didn’t need one.


	10. Chapter 10

**Gendry**

His elbows, knees and back were screaming at him, but he dared not make a sound, he could not be sure Clegane was even asleep. Gendry lay face down in a ditch offset from the clearing, hidden from view by a rose-of-winter bush and had lay there for several hours waiting for Clegane’s watch to end so that he could approach Arya carefully; he wouldn’t put it past the giant of a man to skewer him on sight after the mood Arya had got him in to before she bid him goodnight.

_She is so stubborn, and infuriating, she drives me wild too. Fuck I love her._

Gendry shook his head and stretched his lower back, pushing his pelvis to the sky and punching the life back into his legs as he gingerly peered over the verge of his hiding place; all was dark and peaceful, he could hear the faint sounds of deep gutteral snoring and he’d slept enough times next to Arya to know that she didn’t make noises like that.

Stumbling at first over his dead lower limbs, he made his way out from the cover of darkness towards Arya and their campsite, the tingling sensation heightening in his feet with each step he took.

As he shuffled closer, she looked up and hurredly reached for the hilt of her sword, her grey eyes widening when she recognised her second visitor of the night.

“Arya, it’s ok, it’s me, Gendry,” he whispered, all the while raising both his hands in the air in defence. She was quick with her sword, and no doubt she’d have it buried up to its hilt within his innards if he didn’t give her fair warning of his presence.

She turned her head to the side, a questioning look spread across her face. “Gendry? What the hell are you doing here? _Seven Hells_ , is the whole of Winterfell behind you? Who else did my worrisome sister send to my aid?” she rolled her eyes once more, glanced across at Sandor, making sure he was out for the count, and silently arose from her resting spot, slowly padding over towards Gendry, looking around as she travelled across the clearing.

“I did speak with Lady Sansa, yes, she attended my workbench this eve, but she is not the reason I am here.”

“Then why are you here?”

“For you,” he countered, avoiding her gaze whilst he spoke, before looking up at her from under his charcoal fringe. His sapphire stare examined her longingly almost hopefully as he awaited her response.

Her expression never changed, not a muscle. Her eyes remained on his, a stoic look on her face, giving nothing away.

“Gendry...” she began.

“No its not like that Arya, I heard what you said when I asked you, but I was stupid. I’m stupid remember? I know you don’t want marriage, I was just swept up in what happened before the battle and after the battle,” he stuttered, seemingly unable to pause for breath.

“Gendry, please...” she continued.

“I’m sorry Arya, I’m stupid, a stupid stubborn bull headed idiot remember. A stupid bull headed idiot in love with you...”

**Arya**

Arya looked at her feet, not knowing what to say to her bull. His eyes glinted in the moonlight, that hopeful look on his face searching her for any sign of a change of heart. She tried so hard not to let her face give anything away, her features as hard as stone, her mouth set firmly in a thin straight line.

She had thought they were going to die in the Long Night. She’d taken her chance, thrown caution to the wind and kissed him with all the passion and desire for him that had built up in her head, her heart and her tummy since she’d seen him in the Dragon Queen’s procession entering the castle gates. Maybe even before that on the road to the Twins when she was only three and ten and he nine and ten. The age gap then had sounded so big in her head back then. She had been a woman flowered at Harrenhal and knew many high born women who had been married off years younger than her to Lords well older than Gendry, but somehow she never thought that a man like Gendry, a man her mother would refer to as ‘a young man of the world’ would give a damn about a young, scruffy, dirty, albeit high born, urchin like Arya. Her thoughts were confirmed when he chose the brotherhood over her all those years ago. She had tried in vain not to cry when he told her, digging her nails into her clammy palms in an effort not to show her feelings, to show him her weakness was him.

_I could be your family._

She cursed herself for her outburst, but not even that could make him stay with her. She had been heartbroken.

However, that night, all her thoughts of age gaps, rejection and heartbreak were chased away by his kisses, sweet and tender all over her body. She was seven and ten, he three and twenty, and they wanted each other, craved each other’s touch.

Their kiss in the forge, at first, was a surprise to Gendry, she knew by the wide eyed, mouth opened expression on his face as she pulled away to gaze hungrily at her bull. He had closed the gap between them again, pressing his mouth to hers, nipping her lower lip between his, begging for entry into her sweet mouth with his tongue, softly grazing the soft pink flesh of her lips with his teeth in his passion. She had accepted, their kisses deepening, their tongues swathing over each others, desperate for a taste until she pushed him firmly onto the sacks of grain in the store room, just off the forge.

She did not show it, but she was a nervous maiden, as if it were her wedding night. Their impending love making pushed all thoughts of their doom from her mind, and in that moment, all she wanted was his mouth on her skin, the warmth and closeness of their bodies, to run her fingers through his hair (well what was left of it) and to be enveloped by him.

Her fingers had lightly trembled at her laces, she had ignored the urge to wrap her arms around her chest after she had rolled her shirt up over her head and she fought to look him squarely in the eyes, not to miss a moment of his dumb-struck expression when she began to push her trousers over the curve of her hips, like he was enchanted by the sight of her, standing over him, a predator enticing her prey.

_I’m not the red woman, take your own bloody pants off!_

Her terse remark helped ease the tension building up in her stomach as she stood before him in nought but her small clothes, the torchlight flickering over her heaving breasts giving away her nerves.

He obediently began to fumble for his trousers, his blue eyes never leaving hers, the dark look in them causing her face to burn red, her shyness evident now. She bit her lip, the fingers of her left hand  feathering  from her neck, down over her chest to her stomach, eventually resting both hands on his strong, muscular thighs, staring openly  at his erection as she kneeled over him on the grain sacks, legs either side of his hips her eyes never leaving his.

He sat up on his elbows to meet her kiss as her hips rocked against his, sinking down to allow his entry into her, she gasped as he did so, her walls fighting against his girth, his control allowing her to acclimatise to the new sensation in her centre. She sank ever lower, the sweet pleasure and pain building up as he carefully pushed past her maidenhead causing her to cry out, her head thrown back, her mouth open and her eyes closed. He only thrust further on her instruction allowing her to take on his sizeable girth.

He fit her like a glove, his hips rocking upward meeting her in the middle, her breathing shallow and rapid as he repeatedly pushed in and pulled out of her, his length filling her up to the brim, her walls so warm, wet and addicting.

It didn’t take long for the feelings of  pleasure  to build up in her, the warmth spreading from her head to her toes as the pressure built up in her stomach, her walls beginning to tense instinctively, a fire building up in an alien place to her, just above where Gendry was joined with he r. She looked down at him urging him to give her more, her eyes meeting his as she rocked faster and harder on his length, almost bouncing, not sure how he could possibly pleasure her more. She watched as he smirked up at her knowingly, his eyebrow raised seductively, watching him bring his thumb to his lips, licking the tip and then snaking it down his glistening torso between them, his eyes never leaving hers, as his hand disappeared between her thighs.

Then she came. Hard. Her walls spasming around him,  her sudden shriek of ecstasy on the point of release, ringing around the walls of the forge, not troubling herself to stifle her gasps, as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her, the flesh above her entrance pulsing in time to the stroke of Gendry’s touch. Her mouth was dry, her face and chest flushed, her legs were shaking, her knees weakened from the power of her first orgasm. 

Gendry’s strokes continued, helping her ride out the pleasure as he repeatedly began to slam his hips into her, the pressure building again in her  lower abdomen.  Hi s pace quickened, his thrusts shallower  now ,  his cock  feeling impossibly big inside her, rubbing against her front walls, bringing her to another shuddering release. 

Gendry’s gasps began to alternate with Arya’s, finally bellowing out her name over and over in his own release timing it perfectly just after hers, his seed spilling inside her with every thrust. 

He wrapped his arms around her  slender bod y , crushing her in his arms, his mouth finding her skin, peppering kisses from her breasts to her collarbone and to her neck, breathing out her name between kisses until finally she flopped onto him, her hands tilting his face up to meet hers in a long passion ate  kiss. 

S he had never dreame d that they would live through th e night.  That was to be her last memory, the images that played through her dying mind as she succumbed to her death at the hands of the white walkers. 

She never  imagined that they would be here again, miles from home, dancing the same awkward dance they had danced for years as children  around each other.

Arya was inescapably in love with Gendry, inescapable because she had tried, and failed. She had tried desperately in the days following the battle to push her feelings to the back of her mind, purposefully avoiding him and his forge, unable to properly process her feelings. So she focussed on her list, choosing to run away from her problems.

She never thought her problems would chase after her.


	11. Chapter 11

**Gendry**

He waited somewhat patiently for her to look at him, his blue eyes boring holes into the top of her head, willing her to speak. Every second that passed felt like a lifetime of torture, he knew she was more like to smother him with a pillow than with kisses as a greeting this night and yet he still hoped vainly that he could seduce her again (though the only metal he had on his person for her was the ring he’d made burning a hole in his pocket, and not the double ended spear that he had suspected to be the turning point in their relationship).

He watched her, fascinated, for what felt like hours but in reality was probably only a short while, watching her slender fingers twist themselves in knots, as if she would find some wisdom in their entanglement. He longed to feel the touch of those fingers, cupping his face, stroking the stubble on his cheeks, pressed against his lips, savouring the taste of the delicate tips on his tongue.

He closed his eyes wistfully, breathing in her scent; roses, no doubt from the petals in her bath and the oils she used in her hair. She smelled sweet from the roses and earthy from the grass stains and mud already staining her tunic. The same scent that wove through her hair and her clothes when they succumbed to their passion. The scent of her soft skin, when mixed with the delicious beads of sweat running down her neck to her breasts and to her centre, produced an elixir so intoxicating it felt as if he was drunk on her. He felt himself harden under his tunic just thinking about it.

In this very moment, standing before her, he was addicted and was in withdrawal. He would wait for eternity for her, but it would be painful.

The silence was deafening in the glade, the waves of tension palpable and almost visible between them. Eventually she looked up at him, with a sombre expression on her face, her eyes dull but maintaining contact with his smouldering gaze. She analysed his face, and let out a sigh, her stance defeated and her hunched shoulders sagging by her sides. She was the one to break the silence.

“Why did you do it, Gendry?” she said in the smallest voice Gendry had ever heard her utter. She was a true high born after all, she could shout orders like the fiercest lords of the lands, she could command an army and win the respect of her soldiers as adeptly as the bravest generals from Pyke to the Lands of Asshai beyond the shadow. Yet here she was, standing before her lowly bastard born bull, squeaking quieter than the mice that roam the deepest cells of the Red Keep. He looked at her, startled, but answered with sincerity all the same.

“Because I love you, Arya, and because I had just been made a Lord. I finally have a place in the world, I’m finally worthy to behold you in the eyes of the people, the seven, the old gods, the red god, whatever god! But this new place still means nothing without you. I mean you to be more than just a high born Lady in a castle producing little lordlings and ladies. I want a partnership, to govern the Storm Lands together. If it is my fate to be it’s liege Lord, I cannot do this without you. I do not want this without you and… I still barely know how to use a bloody fork!”

She looked up at him, her eyes growing evermore glassy with each word, her eye brows raising, her melancholic smile growing with each syllable. She even let out a chuckle at his final sentence, however, she continued to smile at him sadly, even after he had finished and began searching her eyes for again for their meaning.

_Why are they so full of sorrow, when once, not many sun down’s ago, they were alight with a flame so bright she ignited me?_

She cleared her throat, “No Gendry, why did you chose to leave me for the brotherhood?”

Gendry was dumbfounded. She knew his reasons, he no longer wanted to serve the lords of power, always watching his back, forever in danger, being used, treated like the slaves they were in Harrenhal under Lords Lannister and Bolton, helplessly promoting their warped agendas. He wanted to find a place in life, live in a place he could call his own, be treated like an equal and have a family who gave a shit about him, not just a bastard born of the King’s lust, littering the doldrums of Flea Bottom.

Incredulous, he complied, “I had nothing to offer you, nothing to give you other than danger. I was a liability. If the Gold Cloaks had found us, together, they would have taken my head there and then and kept you for their… their… pleasures,” he balked at that, “Then they would have dragged you kicking and screaming before the Queen. Fuck only knows what she would have done with you! You are strong, wilful, wild and beautifully terrifying Arya, but when you are befouled, broken and battered afore the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, in the clutches of those Gold Cunts, what could you do? What command could you summon over them, despoiled, ruined and mayhaps a bastard in your belly? You would be thrown into the streets, chastised, naked for the world to see ‘the would be traitor's daughter, finally found after all these years,’ before being shipped off to Dorne or some other prosperous shit-hole as a hostage of House Lannister, forced to marry some smug cunt Lord or Prince in return for sackfuls of gold, a beautiful shining beacon of light reduced to a mere pawn in their game of thrones. I could not let that happen to you, I had to protect you. But now, I give you protection, I can offer you love, I think I am worthy to be your family, Arya.”

Immediately, Arya’s expression changed from melancholy to anger, she almost growled in her temper, her eyes narrowing, the steam almost visible pouring out of her ears underneath her tousled locks.

“FOR THE LAST TIME, STUPID, I CAN PROTECT MYSELF!” she fumed, stretching up on her tip toes to square up to him, her arms locked straight following the line of her quivering body, her fists clenched in white hot rage. She was whispering as loud as she could, as if to not to wake her former captor, but to ensure her bull headed idiot knew that he was still capable of leaving her outraged.

The words and the tone she conveyed were serious he knew, but he couldn’t help the broad smile that suddenly lit up his formerly gloomy face.

_She called me stupid, that’s her tell, this is my second chance not to cock it up again._

Arya’s  rage filled expression c hanged  to a look of embarrassment, her cheeks turning  to a deep shade of crimson as she realised that Gendry would not have forgotten her old affectionate name for him. She balled up her fist, desperately trying not to smile, and punched him hard in the shoulder, like she always used to when he  made her feel a fool.

“Ow!” Gendry lied, making a show of rubbing his shoulder and knotting his eyebrows up in faked pain before smiling widely again, his eyes locking with hers again.

“You can be a real pain in my arse, Baratheon!” she conceded, the look of annoyance radiating through her gaze, trying to maintain her cool but unable to when Gendry closed the distance between them, snaking his strong arms around her, his warm right hand travelling up to caress her cheek, raising her face to his.

He smirked at her.

“As my Lady commands.”

She trampled his foot with her own. Hard.


	12. Chapter 12

**Sansa**

Sansa had not stopped working since her sister fled Winterfell. After Sandor Clegane had left in search of her, Sansa let her mind rest, safe in the knowledge that she would be

under Clegane’s protection by the hour of the wolf.

She had also received word that Lord Baratheon had been seen sneaking out of the forge and heading for the stables also, making haste with his black-as-night stallion for the gates in the same direction as her sister and her loyal shield. She had smiled privately to herself upon hearing this news.

 _At least_ _we can count on_ _Lord Baratheon’_ _s_ _and Storm_ _s_ _End’_ _s_ _loyal_ _ty_ _to_ _our house_ _, just as they had for centuries, loyal to one Stark in particular_.

She chuckled to herself as she looked out the window. The moon was full and bright, illuminating the young gallant blacksmith’s path to his lady love and Sansa began to feel that familiar knot tie in her stomach. Jealousy.

_Gods I haven’t felt that pull in a long time! No no, no good comes from being pursued by a man. Joffrey and Ramsay ruined me forever._

Sansa restlessly sat back on her divan, resting her quill on the books she had been pouring over, vainly trying to keep the castle and surrounding villages fed, warm and defended from potential Lannister attacks and the relentless winter, heaping its heavy snows on the castle and outlying lands. She sighed, suddenly aware of how tired she was. Stretching her arms towards the ceiling and yawning loudly, she stood up from her desk, and walked over to her vanity, loosening her tumbling red waves, brushing out the knots and looking at her reflection in the mirror.

She was known as the beauty of Winterfell. It was no mystery as to why. Her piercing blue eyes contrasted starkly with the bright red of her locks and the pale milk of her complexion. Her high arching cheekbones and dainty nose defined her face, surrounded by the glossy waves of her tresses which fell to her narrow waist, her bust and hips curving attractively under the fabric of her black leather dress.

She was still beautiful, a pretty young Lady of nine and ten, but the tiredness from her duties and the battle for their lives not a few sun downs past showed as charcoal circles around her signature azure Tully eyes, the whites of them pink as if she had rubbed them too hard, the usual rose of her cheeks absent from the bitter cold of the winds blasting the walls of the castle. The years had taken its toll on Lady Sansa, not worn on her beautiful face, but had ravaged her body. Her silhouette remained enviable, however her scars underneath her apparel told of an ugly past, years of torture, rapings and beatings at the hands of her second husband, the bastard of the Dreadfort. She hid them purposefully, not wanting sympathy from her people, or to show weaknesses to those who she did not fully trust.

She was combing through the ends of her waves when she heard a knock at the door to her chambers.

“Milady Sansa, I apologise for disturbing you at this late hour, but the Hand of the Queen would beg an audience with you. He asked me to give his sincere apologies but also stated that he would not bother you this late if it was not of great importance that he speak with you,” Podrick finished, making a bow towards his lady from the door, his cheeks flushing slightly as he gazed up at her.

“He may enter, thank you Ser Podrick,” she smiled warmly at him, but added as a casual after thought, “are you guarding my chambers this night?”

“Why yes milady, myself and a new lad by the name of William, a very trustworthy sort, strong and eagle-eyed, he’s from the village,” he said beaming at her, his chest puffed out at her use of his new title; word had clearly spread of his new knighthood.

“Perfect, he can guard my solar door then. I would ask you to guard my chambers if you will this night. With queer word from the south by raven regarding Lannister envoys, I think myself and Her Grace, Danaerys of House Targaryen will require a boost to our guard detail, manning our chambers and guarding the corridors.”

“It would be my honour to keep you safe in your bedchambers, milady,” Podrick flushed a deeper crimson.

“Good, please see to it whilst I speak with the Lord Hand, then return to me when he has bid me goodnight, if you will.” she added.

“It will be done milady,” Podrick bowed once more, turned and strode out of the door, not before showing Tyrion Lannister into her solar, closing the door behind him, a renewed spring in his step.

The Hand strode into the room with power and purpose, as if he were a man much taller than his stature. Sansa curtsied low to her former husband but arose quickly when Tyrion gave her the uncomfortable look he only ever gave her, the look of a man who felt uncomfortable with his high station after years of being looked down upon by his family.

Looking up at her from below his blonde curls he cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully, as he always did.

“My dear Lady Sansa, you are looking most enchanting this evening. I do apologise for the lateness of the hour, but I have just sat our Queen’s council meeting and I seek your counsel about a very personal matter. It regards Jon.”

Sansa stiffened. _Did he know? What does he know? How much can I divulge without causing a full scale war?_ Those were the words that danced their way around Sansa’s head most days since the arrival of the Dragon Queen to Winterfell. She had been their saviour in the Long Night, her Dothraki sacrificed, her Unsullied depleated severely, her remaining two dragons injured though thankfully recovering and the loss of her sworn sword. Sansa had thanked the old Gods and the new for the safety of her family and the people of the North, but had to find it within her now to be gracious and loyal, even though she did not trust the woman with her half brother, the North or the Seven Kingdoms for that matter. The secret she harboured, along with Jon, Arya and Bran was big, a secret that her father went to his grave to protect. She had to be careful what she said, and to whom she was talking to.

“What about Jon?” she replied, guarded.

Tyrion strode towards the window of her solar  to the decanter of wine set out on the end tab le, two glasses set out already. Tyrion picked up the decanter and with a practised hand, preceded to pour two generous glasses, one for himself and one for his Lady companion. She accepted it graciously and took a dainty sip from it, savouring the taste of the warm ruby liquid on her tongue before swallowing, the wine burning the back of her throat and heating her insides as it went down.  _Gods this is good wine, my bed maiden chose well._

She watched as Tyrion took a healthy gulp of his wine, before turning back to her and placing a hand on the divan by the fire before speaking once more.

“I noticed throughout the meeting that relations between our Queen and your brother seem strained as of late, this troubles me, and I have a feeling that the Queen’s favourite is keeping something from me. You wouldn’t happen to know what that is, would you?”

Sansa tried to hide her gulp with a healthy swig of wine of her own,  but felt the Hand’s gaze burning into her, the way it used to when she was a child, under the influence of Cersei, when she was newly married to him. She knew she could hide nothing from her former spouse. He was too inquisitive, too clever, and he noticed everything.

“My Lady, are you troubled with something? If I may be so bold as to say that you are as quiet as your brother, your eyes telling all, your mouth remaining sealed. We were married, Sansa, we defended each other in the Crypts of your forefathers against the dead, and I protected you from my wretched nephew and my evil sister. You can trust me. I trust you implicitly.”

Nothing in Tyrion’s sombre gaze at his former wife proffered any feelings of ill will. He was right, he had defended her at her most vulnerable, but she needed more than his sweetened words to divulge her secrets. She chose her next words carefully.

“I apologise for my absence in the meeting, my Lord. I had some urgent business to attend to with my Lady Sister that could not wait. Pray tell what you saw of my brother and the Queen that troubled you so?” She looked at him over the top of her wine glass, choosing to remain standing, a gesture of power, her lips still remaining sealed.

Tyrion let out a long defeated sigh.  “Sansa please, call me Tyrion, we have been through enough together to set aside our formalities. You have shared my bed chambers, albeit chastely, but we know more about each other than most. I implore you, you can trust me, I am on your side.” he looked up at her, his  once confident composure disintegrated, a look of compassion replaced it, one might even say it was a look of affection. His hands were wringing now, his wine glass long forgotten on the mantle.  Sansa knew him well enough to realise that he stood before her as if naked,  all his armour stripped, all of his cards were on the table.

S a nsa used this to her advantage.

“And in what way Lord Hand, Tyrion, are you on my side? Surely we all belong on the same side? Us versus Cersei, Queen Daenerys reclaiming her birth right?” Sansa knew she had him, his silver tongue could not save him now.

“I am on the side of all the Starks, you, Arya, Bran, and Jon. Throughout these trials that you have all suffered on both sides of the Wall, and the Narrow Sea, you have survived. You have joined together, united, strong, a power to be reckoned with. Yes you have lost your share of North men, bannermen and your family, but you have come back and defeated what seemed indefensible. You and your family are the strength and power in the North, as you had been for centuries before the Dragons came from Old Valyria. The people love you, they fight for you and they gave their lives for you. The North remembers, they have not forgotten the Starks and nor will they let our Targaryen Queen forget either.”

“She is our Queen, Tyrion!”

“You sound like your brother.”

Sansa glided over to the small man before her, sitting on the chaise in front of him, and taking time delibera ting on his words. She would have been a terrible mummer, she struggled to rearrange her face from a look of surprise to a one more neutral.

_What is he saying? He is the Hand to the Queen, he cannot be seen to be swaying loyalty to another family over her, she’d have his head! He is and was a lot of things, a drunk, a gambler, a whore-mongerer, but also a good man, a loyal man, a protector. He’s only ever wanted to protect me. Is this treason?_

Tyrion broke the silence, his words quiet, his eyes imploring Sansa to understand what he meant. The walls have ears.

It was now or never.

“What if there was someone better?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Sandor**

Chilled to the bone, Sandor Clegane huddled down into his cloak for warmth, cursing his choice to follow the Wolf girl on her reckless journey South.

_Well why break the habit of a lifetime, you will always be a loyal dog, but thankfully this time a better judge of character. Not much consolation though when your freezing your fucking balls off. Fucking know-it-all Starks and their words. Winter is Coming. Its fucking here, in my trousers!_

Grumbling to himself, he rolled over under his furs expecting to see the young Stark wolf across the fire sitting against the tree sharpening her weapons. She was always making sure the steel was razor sharp, just in case she needed to bury it to the hilt in anyone who breathed on her the wrong way. Fearsome bitch she was, even when she was small. He made a mental note to watch out for the little ones. At Sandor’s height, it was difficult to see them sneak up on them before it’s too late.

_Especially the Wolf._

Sitting up, rubbing his eyes, imagining the empty space where the youngest Stark sister should have been sat, he did a double take when he realised that it had not been his imagination.

_Has that little bitch done a runner? Seven Hells, I’m gonna have to lash her to the fucking tree next time!_

He shot up, furs falling at his feet, looking around wildly for any signs, tracks that she’d left so he could make a bid to find her. That was when he saw that her pack was still there. Her weapons were gone, but her supplies remained. But that was when he saw her cats paw glinting out the top of her pack.

_She’d never leave that, she’s probably just gone for a piss._

He sat back down, deliberating whether or not to go looking for her, quickly deciding against it. She had her weapons with her. Anyone who dared sneak up on her in the dark would end up cockless before they could get a glimpse of her bare tight arse. He didn’t fancy finding out first hand.

**Gendry**

“Oww, I deserved that but, ow!!” he whimpered hopping on his good foot.

“Shh Gendry, do you want the whole forest to wake up? Or just the Hound?” Arya hissed feigning a look of annoyance, but laughing inwardly at the ridiculous site of so large man hopping on the spot, eyes bulging, having been stood on by so small a woman. She dared a look at Clegane, but he had remained still. _Thank the gods._

“Well you stood on my foot!” he countered incredulously, staring back down at her, starting to see the funny side himself. “Come on, lets find somewhere warmer, I’m freezing. I’m sure I saw an inn not far from here, I honestly don’t know why you bothered to make camp out here when we weren’t so far from one?”

“Because I was trying to avoid being found by people like you, stupid!” she retorted as they walked back towards the camp and Clegane who looked around wildly at the sound of their footfalls.

“So much for being the fucking look out!” he yelled at her, “and what the fuck is _Lord_ Blacksmith doing here?” seeing Gendry for the first time this night and looking him up and down in surprise, “who else did you tell of your plans, wolf? Cersei fucking Lannister? Is she on her way too?”

“Shut up you miserable old shit,” Arya replied testily, “pack up, we’re moving to the inn just down the road, we’ll catch our death out here.”

“That is the first sensible thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Clegane said, pointing a massive finger at her, shouldering his pack and untying their horses. Arya and Gendry followed suit in silence, Gendry picking up Arya’s pack and tying it to the back of her horse for her, whilst she hopped on.

They continued on down the road in silence, the three of them not in much mood for conversation until they happened upon the large stone inn, lights still on and the sounds of laughter coming from within. Dismounting their horses, Arya padded over to Clegane, handing something to him that Gendry couldn’t make out, before making her way back to Gendry whilst Clegane led the three steeds in his huge grasp towards the stables. Arya and Gendry headed for the door; Gendry was about to walk in before Arya put her arm out to stop him, pointing at her ear and beckoning him to stay hidden and quiet. He agreed, albeit keeping very close by her side. He strained his hearing to be able to discern words and phrases, the gist of the conversations happening from within the bar floating out of the window, into the night. He knew why Arya was being so careful, she was right to be. _Are these people friend_ _s_ _or foe?_

The people of the outlying villages had already left Winterfell the day after the battle was won, so it would be very likely that these people were of the North, but since there hadn’t been time for the Stark soldiers and banner men to regroup and post patrols and envoys to man the Kings Road, they could not be so sure that these men were more of the Lannister envoys that had been spotted at the Neck not too long ago.

He turned to look at Arya, who was still keenly listening at the window, her hand in place on her pommel just in case, but he noticed her visibly relax when she heard the voices from inside talking excitedly about their experiences of the Dragon Queen and seeing the two dragons fly purposefully towards the sea of the dead, great tongues of fire lighting up anything and everything in their paths.

He watched the light from the brazier shine upon her face, the orange glow lighting up her eyes. She had sustained a few injuries from the battle, many mottled blue and purple bruises covered her forehead and her chin, a multitude of little red scratches here and there on her cheeks, nose and mouth, but all paled in comparison to the large cut on her forehead just above her right eye, disappearing out from her eyebrow, up into her hairline. He already knew that it would scar, a souvenir of the dead to remind her to live he thought, but he knew she wouldn’t pay it much mind. She never paid her appearance much mind. _She doesn’t need to, she’s always so beautiful._

He noticed her move now, towards the door, and he automatically followed her, like they were adjoined, but stopped short of entering before she turned around.

“I think its best we keep as low a profile as we can, we don’t want the Lannister’s catching wind of where we are heading through word of mouth. I realise we stand out a bit now, now that we are “The Saviour of the Dawn” and “Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End,” she rolled her eyes at him, clearly annoyed that they couldn’t just sneak around like they used to be able to do when they were children; just Gendry and Arry. “I’ve already given Sandor his disguise,” she added, pulling out of her pack a mask, which, to Gendry’s abject horror, looked a little too life-like. Clocking his look of disgust, she mouthed “I’ll explain later” before slipping on her ‘mask’ and gesturing for Gendry to do the same. She no longer looked like Arya any more, noticing that the mask seemed to melt to her own face rather well, making his beloved appear as if a totally different person, she even walked differently too. She transformed into a plain girl, perhaps a few years older than Arya, with dark auburn chin length hair, pale blue eyes and a thin pointed nose. She was fairly nondescript, not especially pretty nor ugly, someone who, unlike Arya, would fade into the background, which was probably what Arya was going for.

He slipped on his own mask, not knowing what to expect, but to his surprise it fit like a glove. He could breathe, see and move better than he thought he’d be able to, as if the mask had welded to his own skin. He hurriedly followed Arya through the doorway into the porch of the inn, not before pausing at the sight of himself in the mirror just inside the door frame and doing a double take. It unnerved him at first, to see that he had transformed him self into an older gentleman, maybe early forties, his hair short at the back and sides but longer on top, the same reddish brown tint that Arya wore only slightly greying at the temples. His face was pale and pointed, much like Arya’s new face, his own eyes a pale blue colour. He shook his head, unable to comprehend what he was seeing, hesitantly reaching a hand up to his new visage, prodding his cheek, his new nose, and feeling the shape as if it was his own. His mouth gaped at his new reflection, before turning to look at the auburn haired girl grabbing his hand and pulling him through the door into the bar.

“Two rooms please ma’am,” Arya instructed the barkeep, in an accent he did not recognise, “one for me, one for me old man,” she sang, pointing at Gendry, who looked down at Arya with a confused expression on his face, about to open his mouth in a retort to the ‘old man’ jape before being surreptitiously kicked in the shin. Over her shoulder, he saw the large figure of Sandor Clegane enter through the back way, only he did not look like the same man either, and watched him disappear up the stairs. Gendry tried to rearrange his new face into a vaguely neutral expression which must have looked odd to Arya and the lady serving, then he felt himself getting pulled in the direction of the stairs, with Arya shouting over her shoulder a word of thanks to the unsuspecting barkeep.

Once they were safely up the stairs, Arya planted a key into the outstretched hand of Clegane, who snatched it off her, mumbling something about ‘hoping they keep the fucking noise down,’ before shutting their own door behind them.

Arya, had already crossed the room and had taken off her mask before Gendry had turned to face her after staring at the back of the wooden door for several moments attempting to make sense of what had just happened. The confusion on his mask must have been obvious as Arya began to smile broadly at him, teasing him for looking more ‘gormless’ than usual. Gendry didn’t bite.

“Arya, are you going to explain what just happened down there or what?” Gendry questioned, ignoring her teasing.

“Take that bloody face off, and I will tell you all you need to know, I swear.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Sansa**

Sansa beamed to herself as she swilled the contents of her wineglass in her hand. She had not expected the Queen’s Hand to have been so forthcoming with his information. She had half expected to be drunker than this, the Imp still in her solar drowning his sorrows with her, singing bawdy songs about the whores of Lys, or telling tales of the sailors braving the perils of the Smoking Sea to catch a glimpse of the ghosts of Valyria, or a chance to pilfer the gold and jewels that, according to legend, still lay strewn about the shores.

All in all, Sansa still found her former husband quite entertaining and she always had time for him, but his opinions were treasonous and the information he knew, if it fell into the wrong hands, could end with all their heads adorning the walls of Kings Landing, once the Dragon Queen had taken the Seven Kingdoms. She knew he was no fool and would keep his opinions to himself but the worry was always there, especially when he was well into his cups.

Sansa had asked Podrick to escort the Lord Hand back to his chambers and to ensure that he met no one on his journey. She had also asked him to return to her solar once he was done and invite himself in.

She set her glass down, all of the tiredness that she had felt before her meeting with Tyrion gone, and excitedly danced over to her wardrobe and drew out her most luxurious and expensive sleeping shift. She stepped behind her oak dressing screen, its panels adorned with carved roses, stripped down to her small clothes and slipped the gown over her head, smoothing it down over her frame, the silk and lace cut out pattern around her bust and her hips hugged her curves in all the right places. The gown had been a gift from Lady Margaery Tyrell many years ago, but only now did Sansa have the figure to fill it out properly; curvaceous and comely.

Over her breasts, the periwinkle blue silk peaked over her firm nipples, leaving nothing to the imagination, it clung taught to her toned, flat stomach, the cut outs of fine Myrish lace hinting at the creamy skin below before meeting her waist and splaying out in a silken skirt to the floor, a split up the side ending at mid thigh. Sansa’s back was bare, the fabric hugging her sides, where the it met in a rusched v line just above her pert bottom. She had never had the courage to wear such a daring gown, even to sleep in; she was too ashamed of the many scars that mapped her back, each one telling a story much too horrific than the last. Until now. She was the Lady of Winterfell, not the frightened little girl that had ghosted the halls of the Red Keep avoiding the wrath of the Lannisters. Her experiences, although horrifying, made her who she was now; a confident she-lion, hardened and no longer afraid, a woman grown and flowered, who would no longer bow down to the wills of another. She was strong, able, and powerful, and as she looked in the mirror on her vanity, her long silky red hair worn down, spilling in a cascade down her back, she looked every bit the Queen of the North she longed to be. She was regal, beautiful and irresistable. Just how she wanted to look. She donned a matching blue robe and tied it carefully around herself so as to be presentable, at first, to her trusted knight on his return, and made for her solar.

She sprawled out on the red upholstered chaise by the hearth, and waited, a book in her hand, and a coy smile dancing on her lips as she heard the soft wrapping of knuckles on her door.

“You may enter,” she breathed, as Ser William opened the door to announce her caller.

“Ser Podrick for you, Mi’lady,” he announced eagerly, rocking on the balls of his feet as Pod entered the room behind him, “Will that be all Mi’lady?” he smiled, not failing to notice the Lady’s attire and smirking.

Sansa looked over the spine of her book, giving Pod a beaming smile, her eyes not leaving him, whilst replying to Ser William, “that is all Ser William, you can station yourself outside my chambers for the evening, Ser Podrick will be guarding my bedchamber.”

With a pleasant smile, Ser William left the room, and Pod stood motionless, not really knowing why his presence had been requested.

Sansa arose from the chaise, tossing the book back onto her desk and walked towards her most loyal knight, her lips curling into a pretty smile, for him. She could see the redness spread from his neck and ears to his cheeks as he feasted his eyes on her. She closed the distance between them.

“Would you care for a drink, Ser Podrick?” she asked demurely, her blue eyes boring into his brown.

“Am I not on duty tonight Milady? I shouldn’t, what with the threats from the South, and tensions growing everyday, I need to keep a clear head in case danger were to arise.” Pod was rambling, perturbed by her suggestion of a drink on duty, unsure of how to proceed.

_Dear sweet Pod, so proper, so loyal, so… handsome._

She loved it when he flustered, she could see the crimson dominating his cheeks now. His bumbling sweet nature to her was unfathomably attractive. He had always treated her kindly, and with respect, not just because it was his duty, but because he was a genuine, kind and gentle man. She wanted kind and gentle after all she’d been through. She craved kind and gentle.

He stumbled over his words in his discomposure, Sansa felt her heart racing, a warmth spreading over her chest and down to her core, the familiar ache that she felt between her thighs whenever he was around her, growing more unbearable with each beat.

Trying to hide her obvious state of arousal from him, she rubbed her neck, turned, and busied herself with her decanter once more, pouring two glasses in spite of Pod’s reluctance.

“I’m sure one glass won’t affect you too much Pod,” she sang sweetly, her coy smile proving infectious as Pod relented, taking the glass from her gratefully, smiling uninhibitedly back at his Lady, “and please, when we are alone, you may call me Sansa.”

“Of course, thank you Mi’la...sorry, s-s-Sansa, as you wish,” he stammered out taking a healthy sip from his wine. She liked her name on his lips, like it was forbidden fruit to him. He was a stickler for formalities and the way he said her name made it sound to her like she was his secret, like it was deliciously sinful.

“You must be tired, Sansa, all those council meetings, it must take its toll, I’m surprised to see you up so late,” Pod continued, trying to ignore the nerves writhing in the pit of his stomach.

Sansa took a sip from her own glass and nodded her head, “As am I, I was all but ready to succumb to bed before Lord Tyrion arrived at my door, its lucky you caught me when you did, otherwise you may have gotten more than you had bargained for,” she laughed, her cheeks aflame, failing to hide a girlish giggle behind her wineglass.

Pod’s raised his eyebrow at her, taking another sip from the glass and almost spilling it on his tunic.

“These long meetings are so tedious, I wish we could get on and do something about Cersei now. We simply cannot afford to sit behind our castle walls waiting for the winter to end, whilst her soldiers continue to encircle our lands, if that is indeed what they are doing,” she blurted, “but neither can we strike whilst our soldiers are injured, they need rest, and time to recover before I ask it of them to march for battle once more. The men of the North are resilient yes, but I cannot ask weakened men to march South into the Lion’s Den.”

Pod nodded in silent agreement.

“I feel like I am stuck between doing what is right for my people, and doing what is right for the realm.” Sansa fiddled absent-mindedly with a strand of silken hair, brushing her fingers throught it, and in the process, feathering her fingers over her gown, down over her pert breast, settling at her navel.

Podrick followed her hand hungrily, his breath hitched when she skirted over her deliciously hardened nipple.

“Queen Daenerys is eager to push on but I cannot forgo the needs of my people. They are my priority as Warden of the North and there is a lot at stake.” she finished, looking up at the knight who she trusted so well with her life. He had saved her once, many many moons ago, when she had run from Ramsay Bolton, her former husband. He had run his henchman through with his great sword, and since then she had found comfort in his protection, ensuring that he was always one of her personal guards.

“If I may be so bold, bolder than I am being already that is, might I suggest you confide in Jon. He was once King in the North, and although he is loyal to Queen Daenerys, he has always had the best interests of the North at heart, he may be able to help you hold sway over her Grace, to help preserve the North’s interests.” Pod finished, looking at her earnestly, hoping that his counsel proved comforting.

“I could, but I worry about my brother’s priorities. You would have to be blind not to see that he is hopelessly smitten with our Queen,” she grumbled, taking another sip.

“Yes men can be known to do the strangest things for the woman they love,” Pod blurted out, taking a sip from his own glass again. His eyes widened as Sansa crossed her legs, letting her gown open a touch, the split of her nightdress revealing her long supple legs. He almost choked on his wine.

Sansa let her mouth spread into an alluring smile again, as she watched Pod struggle to keep his eyes off the bare skin of her creamy thighs.

Arising from her chaise, she sashayed across the room to her knight, letting her lustful gaze wander from his eyes, to his broad muscular chest, down to the not-so-subtle bulge in his breeches, and back again. She bit her lower lip, nervously fingering the silk of her robe, standing before him.

“Have you ever been in love Pod?” she questioned, looking up at his flushed face, enjoying the way his breathing had shallowed, his eyes finally finding hers once more, glazed with desire. He merely nodded hurriedly, unable to find his words.

“Do you still love her?” he nodded once more.

“It must be so difficult being away from her, does she hail from the South?” Pod shook his head.

“The Westerlands?” another shake. Sansa closed the distance between them.

“The Eastern shores?” Pod continued to shake his head, his eyes not leaving hers. His hands wringing by his sides, fighting with himself not to touch her.

“She’s from the North? Is she far? We could send for her, if you’d like?” she glances at his lips. _Mmmm they look delicious._

“You don’t need to do that Mi’lady,” Pod breathed, looking down at his Lady, her face inches from his own now. His sweet breath tickled her face. “She’s here, in Winterfell.”

Sansa’s heart was hammering in her chest, the knot in her stomach clenching, and the ache between her thighs at fever pitch. She licked her lips.

_He loves me?_

“She is?”

“Mhmmm.”

Pod leaned in, closed his eyes, and kissed her full on the lips.


	15. Chapter 15

**OK guys, I've been a meanie, leaving you all wanting for more Podsa. Well I didn't leave you all** ** that ** **long.**

***Warning, there is absolutely zero plot in this chapter.**

****Warning if you're not into smut, sex, and characters full on doing it, just stop reading. If you are, enjoy!**

**I worry about what comes out of my filthy mind sometimes.**

**Happy reading!**

~~~~

** Podrick **

Time seemed to stand still for Podrick, his mind screaming at him to stop, his mouth and his loins telling him to take this further. He felt Sansa shivering under his touch, feeling her smile into his mouth. He nipped her bottom lip with his teeth and pressed her body flush against him, causing her to squeak with delight. He reached down, took her graceful hands in his, and wrapped them around his neck, deepening their kiss and tentatively pressing the tip of his tongue at her lips, begging her for access. She willingly accepted, allowing his tongue to explore her mouth, whilst her fingers playfully tugged on his thick black locks. He groaned softly into her mouth, tracing his hands sensually down her sides to her hips, pressing his hardness against her thigh, causing Sansa to purr with excitement.

Without warning, spurred on by Sansa's carnal outbursts, Pod picked her up in his strong arms, his tongue delving deeper into her needy mouth. She instinctively wrapped her lithe legs around his waist, her hot centre pressed firmly against his abdomen. He could feel how wet she was for him through his shirt and her small clothes, the feeling of the damp linen and lace clinging to her slick cunt grinding against him sent a surge of pleasure to his manhood, knowing that just his kiss could make his Lady so aroused. Wanting to feel her against his skin, he hastily wrenched his lips from hers, smirking at her pleading face whilst he hurriedly pulled his shirt over his head, his charcoal locks in disarray, his brown hooded eyes never leaving hers.

Sansa, untamed in her passion, threw her dressing robe to the floor, revealing her night attire, the dress pulled up to her hips, allowing herself to grind against Pod more freely, his tensed abdominal muscles rubbing against her mound eliciting feral gasps from her open mouth, her back arching, her eyes closing in unadulterated pleasure.

Pod watched on as he carried her over the threshold of her bed chamber, his mouth agape, his eyes almost popping out of his head, the Queen of his heart thrashing her resplendent form against him, finding so much stimulus from his touch, his body and his kiss.

_She's ready for me._

Sitting them down on her pouffe by the roaring fire in her bedchamber, Podrick leaned forward, clutching Sansa to him, and planted an open mouthed kiss on the expanse of milky skin above her collarbone, lightly licking and sucking on the dewy flesh until it marked with a rosy flush. He continued working his way across her neck, down to her collarbone, and eventually brushed against the skin between her breasts, leaving a trail of saliva to cool her blazing skin. Sansa bit her lip and gasped at the sensation.

He pulled her towards him so that they sat upright, her head perched atop his, his head buried in her long neck, teasing and suckling the delicate skin there as his fingers swept over the curve of her back, circling gently over her shoulders until he could feel every indentation and prominence of her scars. He pulled away only then, fixing her with a look of concern, Sansa looking at the floor, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks in shame.

_I hope those dogs got a decent meal out of him, the bastard._

He slowly lifted her chin, cupping her face in his hand and brushed his thumb along her lower lip. He gazed at her opalescent eyes in the moonlight, taking all of her in as if seeing her for the first time.

"You are beautiful, Sansa." he simply said.

Glistening tears filled her azure eyes as she looked down at her handsome knight, her heart bursting as she looked into the eyes of a man that was clearly devoted to her, his impassioned gaze allowing her to feel like a goddess, to feel completely worshipped for the first time in her life.

_Oh wow, this is what it feels like to be truly loved._

Half laughing with joy and half crying, Sansa greedily took Pod's mouth in hers again, her need, and his loving touch ending her shame.

Pod snaked his hands under her arms, back up to her shoulders, taking each strap of her gown and gently pulling them down, allowing the silk to fall into her lap, exposing her shapely breasts, crowned with aroused rosy peaks. He pushed her back on his lap, holding her firmly in place enough to drink in the sight of her, half naked, emboldened with desire, and yearning for his touch.

_This is so improper, I should not be touching her like this, but gods I want to know what she tastes like._

Reaching up to kiss her flush on her mouth again, he worked his way south, trailing kisses along her jawline, down to her marked neck, eventually reaching her breasts, taking one in his mouth and sucking fervently, massaging the other none-too-gently in his hands.

Sansa cried out in pleasure, the feeling of his touch like electricity sparking and shooting down to her core as Pod continued licking, nibbling and suckling on her tits. As his warm wet mouth left her breast, sucking hard on that nipple, he continued over to her other, taking the other nipple between his thumb and fore-finger and squeezing gently, rolling it back and forth, enjoying the way his hands and his mouth make Sansa squirm in his lap.

"Oh Gods, Pod, don't stop." Her groans were driving him wild with hunger.

_I need to get this night dress off. I need to have her naked, writhing and screaming on my cock._

He picked her up, travelled the short distance from the pouffe to the edge of her bed and carefully placed her on her furs. He knelt down before her, like he had done in the God's wood when he swore his fealty to her, and placed feather-light kisses on her thighs.

Sansa hastily grabbed the fabric of her night dress and pulled it up over her head in one quick action, throwing it unceremoniously over her shoulder, until she was sitting before Pod, in only her small clothes.

He licked his lips, ready to devour her.

He reached up to kiss her, savouring the way her mouth tasted, like sweet wine and strawberries, whilst his hands deftly tugged down her small clothes, sliding them expertly over her legs and tossing them on the floor at his feet. He unbuttoned his breeches feverishly, and let them slide down to his knees, allowing Sansa a peek at his impressive manhood. Her eyes widened looking back up at Pod, a hint of fear in her expression.

"Sansa, I won't do anything to hurt you, I promise. We can take this at your pace, beautiful."

He kissed her lightly on the forehead, hearing her breathing slow, her eyes returning to his, fixing him with a look of pure adoration. Her mind was made up.

"Make love to me, Pod."

He didn't need telling twice.

He lay her carefully onto the furs and her hair splayed out, making the linens in the candlelight look afire. He climbed over her, taking her mouth in his, letting his tongue swathe over hers, before peppering open mouthed kisses down her neck, over her breasts to her navel, before kneeling on the floor where he spread her legs wide. He feathered kisses up the inside of her thighs, making Sansa squirm, spreading her legs even wider, before his mouth was level with her mound. He kissed the auburn hair at the apex of her thighs, letting out a deep primal hum after he inhaled her scent, the vibrations on her outer folds caused her to shudder.

"Oh my, Pod, what are you doing, that feels amazing?!" she sat up, looking turned on and curious at the same time.

Pod just smirked at her, winking, before parting her folds, and licking the sweet nectar within, gliding his tongue upwards from her centre to her engorged clit.

Sansa threw her head back and let loose a wolfish howl as Pod continued to flick and suckle at her clit, all the while his hands were squeezing her tits and fondling her inner thighs simultaneously.

_Oh good God's she tastes so good, like sweet honey and ambrosia. I am not worthy of this beauty. I am not good enough for this woman._

The words that erupted from Sansa had become incoherent, her mouth set firmly in an 'O', her eyes tightly shut and her cries getting louder and louder. She clearly did not care if the whole castle could hear her. He could feel her cunt pulsating under his tongue, the smooth skin slick with her arousal. Her legs draped over his shoulders had begun to quiver erratically, the furs clenched in her fists, her release not far away.

_Come for me Sansa_

"Oh Podrick, _Podrick_ , _PODRICK!_ " His name had never sounded so good than from the lips of his orgasming she-wolf.

She bucked her hips, arched her back and came hard for him, his mouth never leaving her pulsating clit, helping her ride out each wave of pleasure as it hit. Once her breathing had slowed a little, Pod re-emerged, kicked off his breeches, crawled up her glistening body, and kissed her deeply, letting her taste her essence on his tongue.

"Oh God's Pod, all I can see is stars, what did you do to me?" as he came to rest between her thighs.

"You peaked Sansa, have you never come before?" he questioned, his own breathing returning to normal.

"No, never. I've never experienced anything like _that,_ before!" her eyes wide, pupils dilated and her chest heaving.

"It's but a fraction of the pleasure you deserve, my lady," he said, looking up at her, his eyes glazing over, his hands lovingly intertwining with hers.

"Oh, there's more?" her eyes glinted wickedly up at him.

"Oh fuck, Sansa, there's more. The things I want to do to you," he replied, exhaling hard, his face reddening with lust. He kissed her hard before they both wriggled up towards the head of the bed. "What can I do to best serve my lady?"

"I believe I asked you to make love to me, Pod?"

"Are you sure, Sansa?" he looked at her questioningly, his eyebrow raised, a concerned but slightly hopeful look returned to his face.

"Oh God's yes, I'm sure," she laughed, reaching up to kiss him again, her hands resting on his biceps for support.

Looking into her eyes, he reached down between them, and took himself in his hand, rubbing the tip of his engorged member against her inner folds, causing Sansa to moan, and bite her lip in anticipation as if she was expecting it to hurt.

_My darling Sansa, she's never known this to be pleasurable._

Slowly, and carefully, so as to allow Sansa to adjust to his immense girth, he slid his length into her, watching her face for any signs of discomfort. Her mouth hung open, her eyes closed, and her hands gripped the furs under them again, until Pod was fully sheathed within her, his breath already ragged from the snug fit.

"Oh fuck Sansa, you're so tight," he breathed into the juncture of her neck, enjoying the feeling of her walls completely surrounding his cock, and the sound of her moans in his ear. "Are you ok?"

She merely nodded, and Pod continued, slowly easing his length back out of her and then sliding it all the way back in, filling her to the brim, her legs wrapping themselves around his waist, her heels kicking at his tensed back side. It felt so intense.

_Oh Seven Hells don't come yet!_

He gritted his teeth against the pressure of her pulsating walls on his length, trying not to finish inside of her like a green boy, but soon enough, he began to find his rhythm, propping himself up on his elbows, giving himself more room to thrust into her, allowing him to watch her enjoying herself on his cock.

_She feels so fucking good._

Her hips started to keep in time with his thrusts, rocking herself back and forth onto him, so that he could feel himself getting deeper into her, her hands beginning to explore her body, touching her bouncing tits, and snaking down to the stimulated nub just above where she was joined with Pod. She began to stroke herself, her index finger strumming in circles over her clit, the pleasure intensifying the feeling of Pod fucking her harder.

Pod smiled down at her, enjoying the sight of his 'proper' Lady taking her pleasure from him like a wanton harlot.

She keened louder with each thrust, the pace of her finger quickening with the pace of his thrusts, crying out, "Oh God's fuck me Pod, fuck me!" her heels kicking his solid arse to make him fuck her harder, her head coming up to meet his in a needy kiss.

She came explosively on his cock, crying out into his mouth before throwing her head back, her powerful orgasm sending shock waves of pleasure throughout her centre, her cunt squeezing against his solid member, causing him to growl into her neck; she screamed his name over and over again.

"Pod, _POD,_ oh Seven Hells, I'm coming, OH FUCK, POD! _"_

He maintained his pace, helping her ride out her pleasure, before flipping them both over so that Sansa was astride him, sitting over him, her flame red hair wild, stuck to her glistening chest.

_Fuck she's beautiful. What does she see in me?_

She rolled her hips instinctively, rising up ever so slightly, teasing him, before sinking down on his length, causing Pod to curse under his breath as he watched himself disappear into her cunt. She smiled down at him, his Goddess, repeating the action harder, fucking him faster and faster, his hips riding up to meet her thrust for thrust, as she bounced up and down his length. She bit her lip, and tensed her muscles, clamping down on his length, feeling the pressure building again, closing her eyes and moaning his name as she rode him. The more she tensed, the closer they both got to their release, until the pressure behind his length became so great that he hastily reached for her clit, rubbing out her third throbbing orgasm before finishing inside her, pumping her full of his seed and roaring out her name with each thrust.

Sansa wilted on top of him, breathing hard, her cheeks aflame with pleasure. Podrick reached up, still sheathed inside of her, and pulled her body to him, his back resting against the headboard for support, his exhausted mistress in his lap. He looked up at her, tucking a strand of her sodden hair behind her ear, and cupped her face. She rested her dewy cheek against it, turning to kiss the palm of his hand and his wrist, before placing it on the centre of her chest.

"Oh Pod, my heart is beating so hard! Can you feel it?" she exclaimed.

Podrick nodded, a sated smile spreading across his exhausted face, as he took her cheek in his hands again, kissing her and nibbling her bottom lip with his teeth. She giggled and leaned back, unsheathing herself from him, making to lie down on his muscled chest, pulling the furs up around them. With satisfied smiles, they kissed each other passionately, basking in the after glow of their love making, their hands and bodies intertwined.

Sansa lay her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes, peaceful, euphoric and immensely satisfied in her post-coital bliss.

Pod lay back, stroking her hair, kissing the top of her head, until he could hear her breathing pattern change. She had fallen asleep on him.

He looked down at his fair Lady as she slept, thanking the Gods, old and new for her and smiled.

Finally, before succumbing to his own slumber, he cuddled her close, kissed her forehead and whispered ever so quietly.

"I love you, Sansa."

She smiled in her sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

**Gendry**

With their masks and disguises safely bundled into Arya’s pack, Gendry took up a seat next to the roaring fire, tucking his arms around his legs and enjoying the warmth creep up his frozen limbs. He looked up at Arya, who had stationed herself opposite him in the identical armchair, stuffed to the brim with hay and upholstered with scratchy brown burlap, modest in truth, but unparalleled in its comfort when compared to his saddle.

He watched as she stared wistfully into the flames, clearly waiting for Gendry to start asking his questions, he not knowing where to start.

“Arya where did you get that mask, its so...real, so lifelike, it’s eerie, like you peeled it off someone, I mean, you didn’t did you?” Gendry prattled, clearly trying to make light of the situation, but failing to sound calm. He trusted Arya with his life, they had fought together, been captured together, had nearly died together, but he had always known that she was different. She had acted different around him since they had been reunited, when she wandered into the forge the day the Queen’s troops arrived at Winterfell.

She had seemed, aloof, calm and collected. Far too calm in fact; a far cry from the wild creature he had met in Kings Landing. Now she seemed shifty. He knew she had known death, he knew she was an accomplished killer, but was she capable of something as macabre as this? He didn’t know, and the girl he trusted, seemed more like a stranger to him by every passing day. He returned his wary gaze at her and shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

“Gendry, what you have to understand is,” she began, seemingly pausing to allow her mouth to catch up with her brain, “is that we are different people now, different to our days travelling to the wall, and different to our time with the brotherhood. You seem to have done well out of the years and you’ve made friends in all the right places. Me? My life took a different turn, a darker path, and my setting didn’t always land me in the nicest of places.”

Gendry, rubbed his hand over his stubbled head in frustration, “I worked hard in the time you were gone too you know, I was almost raped and murdered by the red witch who attacked me with leeches for my blood. I had to row a _fucking_ long way back to Kings Landing, avoiding being spotted by those fucking Gold Cloaks, gods those fuckers were everywhere! I travelled beyond the Wall with your brother, in search of the dead, freezing my cock off every time I wanted to take a piss. I fought my way through those horrors with Jon who asked me to run for help; I ran solidly for a day and a half back to the Wall to summon help from the Dragon Queen, nearly dying of exhaustion and exposure along the way. We then ended up back in the piss soaked capital, pointlessly begging parle with the Lion bitch who double crossed us, travelling for a whole moon for nothing, and then hauling our backsides back North for another moon into the jaws of death. So _my_ journey hasn’t exactly been a picnic, _My Lady_.”

Arya scowled, and kicked him in the shin from her chair in annoyance at his use of her much hated title, but softened at his look of indignation.

“I didn’t _say_ you’ve had it easy, you’ve been through so much that I did not know, but you have at least been amongst my family, and friends. My journey has been lonely and at times, frankly terrifying. I left a man to die, I travelled across the Narrow Sea with naught but my Needle, and a handful of silvers. I immersed myself into a dangerous world, fighting to survive at every turn, only to come back home stronger, determined but stripped of the naivety of my youth. So I will tell you everything Gendry, because you deserve to know the truth, you were my family when I had no one, and you remain my family now that I am a woman grown, toughened, blooded and worldly. I trust you with my life and my story, I know that no matter what I tell you in this room, you will remember still that I am Arya.”

She looked back at the flames, collecting her thoughts, trying to process the last three years in her mind.

Gendry looked at her with widening eyes, his heart rate quickening, his mouth dry, the anticipation reaching fever pitch. Bringing his hands together, as if in prayer, and pressing his fingers to his lips, he continued, breaking the silence.

“Where did you go after I was taken?”

“The Brotherhood was ambushed and I ended up travelling with the Hound as his ransom for a bit. He took me to the Twins first, to try to and sell me back to my brother Robb,” she paused, looking at the floor, her eyes suddenly glassy, “but we were too late. Those Frey cunts butchered him, lashed Grey Wind’s head to his body and paraded him around like a trophy. I’ll never forget it.” Arya wiped her eyes on the back of her shirt sleeve, her eyes pink and puffy. Gendry, patted her knee sympathetically.

“Then we travelled to the Eyrie, to barter me off to my Aunt Lysa, but Littlefinger, the treacherous weasel, had already murdered her and made off with my sister. Whilst making our way North, Brienne found us and fought the Hound for me. I escaped, but not before leaving him to die, his wounds had festered and we would have run out of provisions before reaching the next settlement. I made that decision, it was hard, but he would have done the same to me under the same circumstances.

When I finally reached the sea at White Harbour, I made passage for Braavos, with the coin that Jaqen gave me after Harenhall. There, I presented myself at the House of Black and White.”

Gendry looked at her nonplussed, shrugging his shoulders.

“The Faceless men guild of assassins, we worship the God of Death and He grants us the power to offer the Gift, the Mercy of death for a price. We offer those names up to Him as a sacrifice in return. We use the faces of the dead to become no one, to slip in and out unnoticed,” she informed, matter of factly.

He spat out the mouthful of ale from his horn. “Y-y-you’re a f-faceless man?” he spluttered, his eyes narrowing, the horn shaking in his grasp.

“I trained with them yes, but it turns out I was too much of someone to become no one,” she sighed, fingering the frayed arm of her chair. He smiled at her a little, although the strain still graced his eyes. “So I left. I knew I was needed in Westeros, if not for my family, then for my list.”  
“Your list?”

“The list of names that I used to recite before we went to sleep, don’t you remember?”

Gendry blushed at the memory flooding back to him; he used to hear her mumbling the names under her breath yes, but he remembered the way her backside used to wiggle backwards into his crotch better.

“So those faces in your bag, they are real people?” he grimaced, running his hands over his face in horrror.

“They were real people, but their sacrifice allows the Faceless Men to carry on their work for the Many Faced God.”

“Where did you get them?”

“From the Twins, I ended House Frey before coming home.” Arya replied honestly.

Gendry’s eyes widened again. He felt his mouth go dry, remembering the day that he found out that House Stark had supposedly met their ends, believing for three years that his beloved Arya was dead at the hands of House Frey.

“You ended the house? What did you do, Arya?”

“I poisoned old Walder’s children, nephews, nieces and grandchildren, diced them up, and fed the ancient old shit them in a pie before slitting his throat from ear to ear,” she delivered deadpan, raising an eyebrow and staring Gendry down, waiting for him to balk and walk out of the door. She was pleasantly heartened when he stayed rooted to his chair.

Gendry gripped the arms of his chair summoning the strength to say something, anything to her, his heart hammering in his chest again. “Arya, I knew you were tough, but I had no idea how tough, Gods I have wildly underestimated you,” he got off his chair and knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his again. She looked mildly horrified at him, he knew he must look like he was about to propose again. “You are brave and terrifying, wild and willfull, and clever and tough, tougher than anyone I have ever known, how could I have thought all these years that you had died?”

Arya looked down into his big blue eyes, smiling at him gently, snaking her fingertips over his palms soothingly. “A part of me did die, Gendry. The girl you once knew was really weak and scared, a shadow. The Faceless men failed to make me truly no one,” she paused, “but they did mould me into someone else, someone different, colder and hardened. The old Arya has gone Gendry and, the truth is, I don’t want her to come back”

Gendry looked at his hands entwined in hers, “I can’t lie Arya, you terrify the shit out of me and I know I will never look at a pie the same way again,” Arya laughed openly, “But you are my Arya, the Arya I love and you came back to me.” he chuckled nervously, gazing at her, tucking a loose lock of mousey brown hair behind her ear.

Arya relaxed at his touch, the feeling alien to her, realising that she did care what Gendry thought of her after all. She let out a small sigh as Gendry raised her lithe hands to his mouth and began to pepper tender kisses to each of her fingers, turning her wrists and pressing his lips to her pulse points, delighting in the way her heartbeat was thrumming under his touch. She leaned down, taking his chin in her hands and pushed her lips almost violently to his, nipping at his lower lip, opening his mouth to hers wide enough for her to attack his tongue fervently. Gendry raised himself up onto his knees, straightening his back and wrapped his arms around her tiny waist, snaking his hands up under her shirt, circling his fingers over the scars at her hips lovingly, hardening at the staccato’d gasps she made as he tickled her sensitive skin.

Arya’s hands stroked up his firm chest, fingers entwined in his dark chest hair as she continued to delve her tongue into his mouth, moaning at the intensity of his kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, just in time for Gendry to pick her up off her chair; she let out an excited squeak as his wandering hands caught her underneath her upper thighs, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her over to the bed in the corner and unceremoniously threw her onto the soft mattress, the dark look in his piercing blue eyes running over her from her steel gaze to her supple legs, drinking in the site of her sprawled out waiting for him to pounce. She looked at him with pure lust, biting her lower lip as she began to fiddle with the ties holding her breeches up, letting her lover know her intentions. Gendry hastily wrenched his own pants down, his erection springing free, whilst tugging his shirt over his head, all the while his eyes never leaving hers. He kneeled before her, taking off her breeches off in one slick motion, spreading her legs wide and diving in, groaning as he inhaled her scent, taking her sensitive nub into his mouth and sucking at it urgently; one of his hands reaching up to her hardened nipples under her shirt, the other grabbing his engorged member, and stroking up and down his length.

Arya cried out loudly under his attention, writhing her hips enticingly, her thighs widening instinctively allowing him to take more of her into his mouth. He lapped her clit teasingly, sharing his attention between the sensitive flesh of her nub, and the soft pink skin around it, driving Arya wild with pleasure and anticipation. He could feel, with each stroke, the quivering sensation of her folds on his tongue, tantalising and incredibly erotic. He opened his mouth wider allowing his tongue to travel south to her opening, tasting her delicious honey as his tongue circled and thrust shallowly inside her cunt. In the throes of her pleasure, her hips writhing, her back arching, Gendry finally snaked one hand down the soft skin of her belly to her glistening mound, stroking two fingers at her entrance before plunging them inside her sex, eliciting a shriek of pleasure out of his wanton mistress. He knew she was ready for him, but he wanted to watch her take her pleasure from his mouth, he wanted to watch her come undone at his touch.

He continued lapping at her, fucking her with his fingers, her moans becoming louder, her breath coming out in short bursts, her eyes rolling back in her head, the language in her cries becoming coarser with each thrust, before she arched her back, screaming Gendry’s name over and over, her pleasure coming in waves, the sensation of her orgasm on Gendry’s tongue almost eliciting his own climax.

_Gods for fuck sake, don’t come yet Baratheon!_

Coming down from her climax, her breathing evening out, Gendry crawled up to her lips, planting sensual open mouthed kisses at her stomach under her shirt, her collarbone, and her neck, before finally reaching her mouth, letting Arya taste her essence on his lips. She moaned into his mouth appraisingly before pulling away from him, her head landing hard on the pillow, her face and chest afire with arousal.

“Oh fuck, wow Gendry, that was, that was...”

“Beautiful” Gendry finished, gazing lovingly at her, his eyes taking in her flustered expression, drinking in the sight of his childhood love bathing in the after glow of her climax.

“That wasn’t quite the word I was looking for!” Arya giggled, thinking of a word much more vulgar.

“That’s how it looked from my vantage point, Stark,” he jibed, winking at her causing her already pink face to flush even deeper.

“Mmmm its nice to know that your view of me is pleasing at any angle, Baratheon,” she countered coquettishly, winking at him right back.

“I think,” he paused for effect, “that you are far too dressed for my liking, _My Lady_ ,” he teased, smirking at her, readying his stomach muscles for the blow he knew was coming. As if on cue, she balled her tiny fist and drove it playfully into his tensed stomach before replying her eyes alight with mirth, her mouth curling up at the corners, mirroring his devious smirk.

“Well then, _My Lord,_ you know what to do _,_ don’t you?!” gesturing to her shirt pulling it up over her moistened skin. Gendry stared hungrily at her, wanting desperately to rip the fabric to shreds with his bare hands.

“As My Lady commands.”


	17. Chapter 17

** Arya **

The daylight crept in in-between the ladders of the threadbare curtains, the dust looming in the air caught the light in facets, leaving a sparkling wake from the window to the bed. The dawn's tentative glow hung bright over Arya's face, illuminating her complexion and accentuating the blush of freckles lightly dusting her nose. She awoke to winter bird song, the robin redbreast's trilling their joyous tune to rouse her from her slumber. From her side of the bed she could see the land give way to the mountains of the east, the sun peaking out from behind a distant summit. She sighed as she let the tranquillity of the scene wash over her, knowing her life to be far less peaceful in reality, wishing the time away until her almost certain demise.

_Would the heavens look like this? Am I indeed destined for them?_

An alien sound tore her from her reverie, the sound of gentle breathing reached her ears from her right hand side. For many years, since she had first travelled to Braavos, she had been accustomed to sleeping alone and so the sounds startled her, sending her heart to her mouth, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She turned, noiselessly, towards the sound of the intruder, but was instead greeted with an unusually welcome sight before her. She relaxed instantly. Gendry lay beside her, stretched out peacefully in his sleep, his eyes closed, his long lashes tickling the skin of his cheeks below. She watched as his muscled chest rose and fell steadily, uncovered to just below his waist, the sheet swathed around his lower abdomen, giving Arya a peek at the soft hair that trailed from his navel, south, below the sheets.

She couldn't help but notice the large bulge, protruding from just under the sheet. She bit her lip turning her head back to his handsome face, a crimson blush spreading across her features.

_Wow, even in his sleep! He's really quite something isn't he?_

Her thoughts about him often betrayed her, she both loved and hated the way he made her feel; so girlish and vulnerable, but so liberated and desired. She had harboured a desire for him since as early as Harrenhall, but she had never imagined that anything would happen between them of this nature. She had only been young, but unlike Sansa, she had had no time for men, seeing them only as brothers in arms and opponents in the battlefield, not as potential suitors or love interests. Gendry had been the only man to truly turn her head, in ways other than to notice the calibre of their swordsmanship. She had been disgusted and horrified by the tales of the bedroom from her mother, her attempts to teach her the ways of being a Lady, and doing her marital duty, had left her far from enamoured with the idea of becoming someone's wife. She could never have imagined that the frankly dull, messy and laborious task that her mother had described to them both could actually feel the way it did with Gendry, a man whom she was certainly not married to. He made her feel afire, worshipped and alive, the passions they shared for one another in their actions, insatiable. Had her mother been alive, she would never have approved of Gendry, but if Arya absolutely had had to marry someone, she could imagine worse than him.

_I'd definitely be ok with performing my 'duty' with him for the rest of my days._

His arms lay turned towards her, his right draped across the smooth skin of his toned stomach, the left lying further away from his body towards Arya, as if he were reaching for her. She took the time to drink him in, watching the muscles of his abdomen ripple with each breath, watching the way his full lips parted, and the way the sunlight danced over his chiselled jaw, catching the lighter auburn flecks of his otherwise dark stubble. She desperately wanted to kiss his still swollen lips, her sordid thoughts taking the place of her usually composed, steely demeanour.

She couldn't help her self and gave in, leaning down to drape her naked chest over his, allowing her already aroused nipples to brush over his chest lightly, gasping slightly with the pleasure the act brought. She carefully straddled her knee over his torso, until she was lying atop him with her elbows pressed to the bed, her arms enveloping his head either side the pillow. She reached up and ran gentle fingers through his hair, as she planted open mouthed kisses from his collarbone up his neck and jaw, over his adam's apple, enjoying the rough scratchy feeling of his abrasive stubble on her tender lips. She lightly sucked at the flesh of his neck below the square of his jaw, before peppering kisses along it towards his mouth, feeling his breaths on her forehead, coming harder and more ragged in his wakening. She grazed her lips over his, parting them easily, and nibbled on the rosy flesh gently, before raising herself up over him once more, onto her outstretched hands, her face swimming into his vision as he slowly opened his breathtakingly blue eyes. The electricity from his surprisingly heated gaze sent fireworks to her core and she wriggled atop him, attempting to quell the sudden ache between her legs realising that she was still tender from the night before.

He raised his eye brows at her seductively, and smiled his irresistible, infuriatingly knowing smile.

"Well g' morning, Arya," he teased, his words coming out breathlessly as his eyes appraised the site of his wanton lady atop him. She sat astride him, the sheets around her waist ruffled at her back but left nothing to the imagination to Gendry. His hands automatically flew up to her hips to support her, his sleepy smile twisting into a darkened smirk as she began to rock her hips along his hardened manhood, "As mornings go, this one is certainly glorious, the best yet I'd say," he winked mischievously at her, suddenly manhandling his length, and guiding it over her warm wet centre, encouraged by her readiness.

"Oh shut up and fuck me, Gendry." she whined as she sank onto his cock.

"As my Lady commands," he replied, pushing up to meet her hips, but ducking his head out of the way of her impassioned swipe.

The mood at breakfast was a more sombre affair. At Arya's insistence, they had each had to don their masks again, much to Gendry's disgust, to avoid the recognition of those around them. Gendry sulked into his plateful, Sandor clutched his head, looking half asleep, but Arya was the most cheerful of the bunch, hungrily feasting on her bacon trencher, cheese and dried fruit on her platter. "You two should really tuck in you know, who knows how many more opportunities we are going to get to eat like this on the road ahead," she turned to Clegane, "and if you aren't going to eat anything, at least tuck it into a napkin for later. I'm starving, I could eat all of your plates and mine this morning," she boasted.

"I'm not fucking surprised after all the 'exercise' you two had last night and then again this morning," he grumbled gesturing to the others in the room, all sullenly tucking into their morning meal, a young squire in the corner nodded into his plate, some bread hanging from his mouth, his elbow dangerously close to knocking the tankard of ale off the table. "Think the whole place feels how I look," he tutted at Arya, her face burning at his words.

Gendry looked up from his plate at her, a smirk playing on his lips. She returned Gendry's furtive glance and kicked him in the shin, before downing her jar and shouldering her pack. "Come on, you can sleep in the saddle, Uncle," she stated, laughing inwardly at the murderous glint in Clegane's eye.

Once out of the inn, saddled and atop their steeds, they removed their disguises once more, and made their way back towards the general direction of the Kings Road. When the familiar, clearly worn path came into view through the trees, Arya turned to her companions, and in a low voice so as not to attract the attention of unfriendly ears, shared her plans for the route south.

"I don't think it wise to follow the Kings Road. If the stories are true and there are Lannister sentinels stationed at check points, and envoys making haste for Winterfell, then we would do well to avoid the main roads and take cover in the trees."

"But that will make the going slow, allowing for the Lannister forces to strengthen or gain on Winterfell and could potentially negate the point of this mission; killing that crazed bitch of a queen and protecting the North before its too late," Clegane argued, thumbing impatiently at the reins.

"Yes but sticking to the main roads could also potentially increase the likelihood of our heads departing our necks, I dunno about you Clegane, but I'd rather like to keep mine attached," Gendry retorted sarcastically, inducing a glare from the larger man. However, Gendry remained upright and square in his saddle, staring the man down, "I think we should do as Arya suggests, we are no good to anyone, dead."

Reluctantly, Clegane backed down, sarcastically gesturing to Arya, a growl escaping his thin pursed lips, "Lead on, Lady Stark."

They spent the day traversing the forest at a steady pace, Clegane behind Arya and Gendry, keeping a look out for any foes, humming very quietly to himself. Up front, Arya and Gendry rode together, trotting alongside each other in a comfortable silence.

Arya was reminded of their travels North as teens, as friends looking out for each other, the pair of them hunted by the Lannisters. This was no different, only now they travelled together as friends, lovers, and as family, the value of each others safety heightened exponentially. The thought tugged on her heart, an unfamiliar nervousness grew in the pit of her stomach, and she did not like it.

They only stopped to water their horses along the way, finally succumbing to their need for rest and sustenance under the cover of darkness, heading deeper into the woods away from the Kings Road, where the tree cover was thicker and the chance of being found was slimmer.

They ate their rations together, a meagre supper of the stale leftover trenchers from the morning and cheese before bedding down for the night, Arya suggesting that Clegane get some rest and that she and Gendry take the first watch. Clegane looked at her with what looked suspiciously like a look of thanks, before huddling up under his furs, and falling immediately asleep.

Arya took out her weapons and her whetstone, and began tending to the dulled edges, or what she believed to be slightly dulled; she liked her weapons sharp.

Gendry sat down beside her, his own furs wrapped tightly around him, watching her work, and marvelling at the moonlight reflecting off the blade, illuminating her face with a cool milky glow.

"I couldn't relinquish Needle," she murmured absent-mindedly, scraping at the metal away from the hilt, before running a rag over the blade to polish it, not taking her eyes from her task.

"Was there ever a time where you needed to?" he asked, watching her surprisingly graceful hands deftly caressing the steel until it shined.

"The kindly man told me that, in order to become no one, I had to shed myself of all of the trinkets and belongings that weighed me down from my past. I carried nothing of real value to me, save for this," she said, testing the balance of the sword, her arm outstretched, still marvelling at the craftsmanship of her long ago departed armourer, "It was a gift from my brother," she hesitated, but finished her sentence sadly, "my brother, Jon."

"I remember it well, you always revered it, it truly is of quality craftsmanship, Arya." he smiled at her, watching her fondle her beloved blade.

"I couldn't throw it into the docks, like I did with my clothes and my cloak. I hid it, behind a stone in a cleft of the pier. It was to precious to me, too valuable to me to lose. It was all I had left of him, it was all I had left of me," she continued, eyeing the blade in her hand, "that must be why I always seemed to struggle there. He told me I had the talent to be a faceless assassin, but he always saw through me. In the game of faces, he almost always sought me out to be a liar and he punished me for it, no end. Sometimes severely. He had to rid me of my sight for most of a year to make me understand, but in the end I was still stubbornly Arya, and he accepted me for it. He even looked almost proud when I took the life of the waif to save mine own from the Many Faced God, and told him that I was leaving the order for home." she pondered, sheathing her Needle once more, "I marched straight for my sword and boarded passage on the first ship back to Westeros, not looking back."

"Oh Arya, I'm sorry you had to go through all of that on your own, I curse myself everyday for my absence in your life, I should have been there, protecting you…" he faltered, smirking to himself, "not that you needed it, mind." he stared blankly at the floor, before looking back up at her, feeling her hand clasp around his shoulder.

"Gendry, without your leaving me, I would never have fled for the Free Cities, never had trained the way I have, and would not have been strong enough to have survived the Long Night, let alone kill the Night King. I believe that the sequence of events in our lives leading up to this point were not random, but were of that of destiny. I know it sounds stupid and far-fetched, but I think the red woman was right. To an extent the prophecy was all true. I believe that, this "Prince that was promised", Gendry, was you."

Gendry looked at her flabbergasted, "But she said that that was Jon and before that my uncle Stannis. I thought that it was you when you killed the Night King, she said so herself, that that Valeryian word could be translated into Prince or Princess," Gendry looked incredulously at her, "how in the seven hells could it be me?"

"When you left me, Gendry, when you told me that I could never be your family, it broke my heart. It pierced it, like a sword. Much like Azor Ahai and his beloved Nissa Nissa," she admitted, downcast.

"The prophecy states that, when the stars bleed and the darkness gathers, a warrior will draw forth a sword from the flames, Lightbringer, and he who wields it will be Azor Ahai reborn, and the darkness will fall by the sword. Gendry, what if you are the warrior, the warrior who sacrificed your love for me, to break my heart and make me flee across the ocean away from you, to train so that one day, I might have the power to chase away the darkness, to be born of the flames as Lightbringer, or Dawnbringer as I am known. You are the warrior that wielded me to become the weapon who chased away the darkness," she smiled, her eyes shining brightly, "without you, I would never have been forged, or wielded, I would be dead."

Gendry sat in silence, taking in her unbelievable words. He rubbed his temples with his fingers, trying to work it all out, but he himself was unable to argue with her logic. Finally, placing his hands back in his lap, he looked back at Arya, the look of confusion, replaced by a look of adoration

"I love you, Arya," he said, his eyes boring into hers, his hands reaching for her hands again, "you are impossible, incredible, and I am completely in awe of you," he stroked her hands in his, bringing her head to rest on his shoulder, "what you just said makes no sense, but at the same time makes all the sense in the world. That day in the cave was one of the worst days of my life, but had I known then what would come to pass, I'd do it again, over and over, knowing that you would be the saviour of the dawn, and I would be the man worthy enough to wield you."

She raised her head from his shoulder and looked into his eyes, her big grey eyes glassy, tearing up to her dismay, like a lovesick teen. "I love you too, Gendry," she planted a chaste kiss on his lips, "It's strange, I never thought that I would ever know what this feels like, it was never part of my plans, but I'm glad you're here with me, you know, for the end."

"This isn't the end, Arya, I wont let it be. I made a promise to your sister, to be by your side and protect you at all costs, and I am not about to fail you, or her." Gendry urged, bringing his hands to her cheeks, cupping her small round face in his hands and kissing her tenderly.

"And I will protect you right back, Gendry," she smirked, ever the she warrior, never the damsel.


	18. Chapter 18

**Sansa**

She was sat at her writing desk in the solar, pouring over the ledger, when the raven soared in through the window, a rolled up parchment protruding from the top of the copper holder attached to the bird’s leg. She gently stroked the raven’s beak, offering her thanks in the form of some seed, whilst hastily unravelling the note and avidly reading its contents.

_ Little Bird, _

_ I hope this note is finding you well, untampered with, and that you are safe. I am writing to keep you informed of our progress. We have passed the Neck, the mountains of the Eyrie to the East lay well behind us now, and we are growing nearer to the rush of a mighty river, I will not say which one, however only you will know, as only you know when we left. _

_The days are getting warmer, the hold that winter clutches these lands with is still evident on the fields, but the nights are not so cold now, the risk of freezing ~~my balls off~~ … to death in our sleep has significantly lessened, especially for your ‘Lady’ sister._

_The Lord who holds your sister’s affections completes our party, we both caught up with her not far from the forests of the Neck whilst she was making camp. She is a ~~fucking~~ adept rider, Little Bird. I am surprised that we could keep pace enough without killing our horses to catch her that night. Have no fear, if harm were to befall us, she would outrun any and all foe who dares to follow in her wake._

_She seems well and happy, Little Bird, have no fear for she is well protected and 'tended to' by our ‘bullish’ companion._

_I am sorry that my correspondence is brief and cryptic, who knows if this letter reaches you apprehended or at all? We have to be careful in these ~~fucked up~~ dangerous times Little Bird._

_Be safe, hold on, for we are close to our destination. I do hope you find comfort in these dark days._

_ Yours, ever loyally, _

_S_

Sansa smiled to herself, as she re-read Sandor’s foul-mouthed and cryptic clues, surmising that they were indeed gaining upon the Trident.

_They are making good progress for their absence of ten and four days._

She sat back in the chair, resting her hands on her lap, and sighed, relieved that they had not come to harm, the knot that was twisting in her belly over the last fortnight, unravelling at her loyal guard’s words. Closing her eyes, her thoughts drifted to her tenacious younger sister, imagining her padding through the forests with her Needle, striking at her foes, real and imaginary, like she had always done when she was sneaking around the corridors and the woods of Winterfell. She gazed longingly at the images as they danced around before her, the theatre behind her eyes bringing her comfort, knowing that her sister was safe in theirs, and in her own hands.

Rising from her chair, smoothing her skirts, she decided to take a walk along the battlements, knowing whom she would find there, pensive and alone, staring out over the troops camped outside the castle walls.

Exiting her chambers onto the concourse of main corridors, she glided swiftly and surely around each stony corner, the sound of her silken skirts rustling along the flagstones, sweeping at the days old rushes, echoed around her by the cavernous ceilings. She reached for the wrought iron handle to the Westernmost turret of the castle and carefully ascended the rough hewn stone steps up to the battlements.

She saw him standing as he always was, staring unseeingly out onto the camps below, deep in his thoughts, absent-mindedly thumbing at his Hand’s badge. His smart black tunic hung loosely over his small frame, the notch of his belt tied much tighter than the worn mark where it usually sat; he had noticeably lost some weight. His hair usually rough spun gold curls, was lank and dull, falling over his lowered brow, his eyes circled black from his late nights reading no doubt and narrowed, surveying the scene below. The last fortnight had not been kind to Lord Tyrion Lannister.

Noiselessly she walked over to stand beside him, her hands resting on the parapet, standing tall and regal beside Tyrion, who stood like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“You have nothing to worry about My Lord, I have no mind to inform our _Queen_ of your feelings.” she started the conversation, looking out onto the snowy fields below and beyond the far reaching Dothraki camp to Winter Town.

Tyrion turned to look at her then, looking up at her beseechingly, shrugging his shoulders and wringing his hands.

“I no longer worry for my life, Sansa, what now have I got to lose? I am well aware that my fate is sealed at the hands of our Queen. How could it not be? I try to do the right thing for this realm in my station, but my actions do not always reflect the will of Our Grace. How can anyone blame me for having such misgivings now, now that I have seen that the wills of our Queen, do not necessarily match the needs of the peoples of this land, a land which I know like the back of mine own hand, and a land that she has never set foot on until she stepped off the boat at Dragonstone.” he finished with a sigh, lowering his downtrodden face to Sansa’s feet. “Besides, I hear the head of a Dwarf is a very fortunate trinket to behold, you may need its luck to survive this war yet.” he continued, twisting his downturned mouth into a rye smile at his verbalised thoughts, his mismatched eyes somehow managing to twinkle cheekily at her, behind the fog of his overarching despair.

Sansa took his pitiful sight in, a small smile hinted at her lips and a light chuckle at his self deprecating joke burst forth from her mouth. Tyrion’s smile broadened, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his laughter mirroring hers.

“Please Sansa, do call me Tyrion, I do despise the formalities that my god forsaken father insisted upon in my youth, reminding everyone that although I was only a wretched drunken dwarf, I was still of noble birth to House Lannister.” he retorted miserably, thoughts of his youth clouding his eyes again.

Her guard well and truly down around her former husband, Sansa chortled, “Ok, Tyrion, your secret is still safe with me, and I don’t intend to require your head to win this war. We will use our ferocity, our love for our land, and our battle won tenacity to overthrow your sister. I fear we may need something greater to pull off the feat that you intend for my cousin, however,” she said smoothly, unthinkingly, a knowing smile playing about her lips as her gaze became hazy, taking in the sight of the Dothraki, fighting amongst themselves over a particularly large boar, roasting on the spit.

Tyrion’s laughter died in his throat, his eyes narrowed and his brows knitted together in confusion. Sansa gasped, clutching at her mouth with her hand, wheeling around to face Tyrion, her body beginning to quake under her dress.

_Gods did he hear that, did he take in what I just blurted out?! Sansa you fool, he may profess to be on your side, but do you trust him truly? The walls have ears._

He’d noticed. He looked into her eyes at her unwavering stare, her unusual gait, the small beads of sweat that had erupted at her brow. He could tell that she had meant what she had said, and that it was not a slip of the tongue. Her composure melted away before his very eyes.

**Tyrion**

“Your cousin? My plans were for your brother Jon, were they not?” he eyed her carefully, not wishing to accuse, but urging her to continue, wanting her to trust him. 

She paled, fumbling with the front of her dress, pulling an errant strand of red hair from her shoulder before clutching the fabric at her breast, as if her bodice had become constricting, her breaths coming fast, distress evident upon her once composed face.

“Sansa please sit,” Tyrion gestured her over to a rough stone bench that lay a ways back from the battlements. She consented, and gingerly sat upon the cool stonework, gathering her thoughts and failing to come up with an excuse for her admission.

Tyrion took her pale clammy hand in his and helped her sit back against the wall. She was breathing erratically, and Tyrion was genuinely worried for her health. He took her face with his other hand, raising a palm to her flushed cheek.

“Should I fetch the maester, Sansa?” his voice soothing, as he mopped her sodden brow with the cuff of his sleeve.

“No, no Tyrion, I will be fine in a moment, I fear that I have divulged the very information that I have been trying to keep a secret since its telling to me.” she breathed heavily, as Tyrion knelt before her, taking her hands once more.

“You can trust me Sansa, I know my surname has oft been a barrier to all whom I meet, but it does not define me. Look at me,” he asked gently, his hand grazing her jaw, guiding her gaze to fall squarely on him, his honest yet peculiar eyes searching for her perfect sapphires. “Remember what I said in the sept? I am yours and you are mine? I realise that our marriage was a scheme dreamed up by my evil sister and nephew to torment us both, and that you nor I have ever held any romantic love for one another, but I have not broken a vow made to you since the moment I said the words. My secrets are yours and your secrets are mine, today and for the rest of our days. Even if you grow to love another, I will always love, respect, and honour you like family, Sansa. Believe me, I want to uphold my loyalty to you, as a husband would his wife.”

Her eyes met his at last, her breathing shallowed and quaking stopped. She looked down at Tyrion, tears pricked at her eyes, understanding his words to be sweet and genuine. She appeared as if she were battling with herself, however, she eventually broke the silence, but not before checking to see who was within earshot. Her next words were not ones that he had expected to hear.

“Jon is not my brother,” she whispered, “He is my cousin, as he is to Arya, Bran, Robb and Rickon. He was never a bastard, born of the supposed infidelities of my father. He remained an honourable man, loyal to my mother until his dying breath.” she recalled sadly, thinking of how that lie had tore at her mother’s heart until her end.

“He is the child of my Aunt Lyanna, my father’s sister, the wild Lady of Winterfell that roamed these halls long before my feral sister.” she continued wistfully, chuckling to herself as she thought of her wilful little sibling.

Tyrion looked at her, a frown spreading across his face, confused by her words.

“But your Aunt never married, she was kept as a hostage in Dorne until her death after her raping at the hands of Rhaegar Tagaryen,” he replied knowledgeably, his book smarts ever evident, “Does this mean that he is the bastard son of a Targaryen, born of such abhorrent violence?” he replied, astonished at her words. He thought sadly of the friendship he had forged many moons ago, in the autumn, with a boy turned man at the Wall, how starkly northern he looked, not a hint of his Old Valyerian heritage evident in his appearance, “Born in Dorne also, that would make him Jon Sand wouldn’t it? But as we know bastards can be legitimised, look at our friend Lord Gendry no-longer-Waters Baratheon? Could she not legitimise him as a Targaryen, her heir?”

“Even if that were true, Danaerys is hardly going to legitimise him is she?” Sansa cried, the worry increasing in her voice. “That would give him a stronger claim to the throne than hers. He was born of Rhaegar Targaryen, who was, at the time, the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. He would always be a threat to her claim. She can’t ever know that they are related in any way, not until the time is right.” Sansa continued, remembering that she needed to keep her voice down. Looking around again, she whispered, “However, the truth is so much worse I fear.” 

She paused, swallowing the lump in her throat, “Rhaegar, cast aside his wife Elia Martell of Dorne, a fact little known to many,” Tyrion nodded, clearly aware of the histories of the Dragons rule. Sansa was impressed.

“It is said that Aerys was keen for the people not to find out as it would bring the wrath of Dorne down upon them, a friendship that was always strained at best, solidified only by their marriage. It is said that the Mad King had threatened her into silence, you can guess by which means he intended to kill her for her treachery. Her children would always remain heirs to the Iron Throne as they were still trueborn to the Prince. 

However, all of our fates were sealed the day he met my aunt, Lyanna. They were married in secret under a weirwood tree before the Old Gods, by a pious man who swore allegiance to the Prince and his now wife. Lyanna was never raped, a lie told by King Robert in his rage against Rhaegar and the Targaryen’s. They were married, and she found out she was pregnant just after Rhaegar was struck down by Robert at the Battle of the Trident. She was spirited away to Dorne for the sake of her’s and her unborn child’s safety, for the Targaryen’s knew not the wrath the would be usurper would bestow upon the wife of his greatest foe, if he were to find out that his beloved was carrying the future of the House he so despised. She was heavily protected in the Tower of Joy, whilst Robert won his rebellion. My father, Ned Stark, discovered my aunt Lyanna’s hiding place, and sought to rescue her, unknown to Robert, only he found her dying in the birthing bed. She held the babe in her arms and whispered to my father, “ _Listen to me, Ned. His name is Aegon Targaryen, if Robert finds out, he’ll kill him. You know he will. You have to protect him. Promise me, Ned. Promise me.”_ That baby was Jon, Tyrion, her baby with her husband Rhaegar Targaryen, was Jon.” She finished, staring wide eyed at her former husband waiting for him to speak.

Tyrion let out a strangled cough as he cleared his throat, Sansa’s words buzzing around his head, his brain trying to process the information in a sensical order.

“So with the children of Elia Martell dead and the heir to the Targaryen throne apparently falling eventually to Daenerys, then in light of this new information, Daenerys has never been heir to the Iron Throne?” he stammered, looking shocked as Sansa nodded her head slowly.

“Jon Snow, my cousin, your friend, our brother, is rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”


	19. Chapter 19

** **Sansa** **

Sansa almost ran back down the stone steps to the main body of the castle, berating herself for being so forthcoming with her former husband. She hurried through the halls once more, muttering to herself, wanting to find a distraction from the nervous fluttering in her belly.

She trusted Tyrion, true enough, but it still felt odd to her, being able to confide her inner most thoughts and feelings to another so candidly. Her every fibre told her to stay quiet, not reveal anything that could incriminate her, play the innocent just as she had all those years ago under the never-ceasing watch of Cersei and the rest of the Lannister's. However there was something about Tyrion, the earnest look in his eyes and his unwavering loyalty to her since their wedding night that comforted Sansa. He was the cleverest man she had come to know, and she believed that her admission would be safest in his hands. Besides, when it came to the interests of the Queen, he could be the most influential and the most manipulatory.

As she neared the Great Hall, the snakes writhing in Sansa's belly seemed to calm, and she slowed her pace, composing herself to make audience with whomever she would meet, breaking their fast.

The Lady Knight, Ser Brienne, sat alone with a plate of bacon, eggs and crusty bread before her, drinking deeply from her ale tankard.

Sansa glided towards her table and took a seat at the bench before Brienne, taking a goblet and filling it with ale from the flagon. She searched Brienne's face as she took a long drink from her glass; the lady knight was sombre and a little glazed in her eyes, but she stood to attention immediately, dragging her slackened face into a neutral expression upon realising that her liege lady had joined her at the dining table.

"My Lady Sansa," she bowed low, not looking at her, her speech a little slurred.

"Ser Brienne please, be at ease, I have come to speak with you in an unofficial capacity. Do sit," Sansa replied, inviting her charge to sit back down, as she needed not any formalities today; she had wanted to speak with Brienne as a friend.

"As you command My Lady," Brienne looked upon Sansa miserably with a hint of embarrassment at her inebriation, but graciously took her seat afore the red head.

"Please, call me Sansa, I'd much prefer that you did, after all that you have done for my family."

"Only if you would call me Brienne," the knight replied hesitantly, careful not to overstep her boundaries.

"Well that I can certainly do, Brienne," Sansa looked upon her sworn shield and her friend kindly, but her face fell when she saw the her downturned mouth, her lower lip quivering.

Brienne took a long drink from her tankard, emptied it, then set it down at the table, waiting for Sansa to speak. The silence was stifling.

"Is there anything I can help you with, Sansa?" she questioned at last, eyeing her curiously, her hands shaking around her goblet.

"Are you ok, Brienne? We have barely spoken to each other in a fortnight, since Ser Jaime left for the South, and I'm worried about you."

Brienne's blue eyes filled with tears at the mention of his name, and she reached for the flagon once more pouring herself a generous measure, before lifting it to her lips.

Sansa looked on sadly. She had always been adept at initiating heart-to-hearts with her best friend Jeyne, when she had been naught but a girl, however, after everything that had happened to her since she had left for Kings Landing at the tender age of four and ten, that particular venture had become harder for her as all topics of conversation as a woman grown and flowered no longer seemed light-hearted. Conversations on her part were always purposeful now, and a small part of Sansa missed the camaraderie of talking easily with a girlfriend. Today however, she welcomed the change, the chance to comfort her friend, and she grasped it with both hands.

"What happened Brienne?" Sansa continued, looking on at her earnestly, reaching her hand out towards the Lady Knight, wrapping her fingers around her clenched hand.

"He left, for Kings Landing last moon, Lady Sansa. He told me that he did not expect to come back to the North." she replied monotonously, her face as hard as stone, her leaking eyes giving her true feelings away. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

"I'm so sorry Brienne, I know how much you respected him, and enjoyed his company. I had pondered his presence myself actually. Tyrion knows not of his whereabouts either which is odd" Sansa began, "Did he say why?"

"He said that he had to go to Cersei, to see her, to be there for her and his unborn babe. He had to do the right thing, the honourable thing, even if he had to give up on his chance at true happiness," she began, and faltered, adding, "with me."

Sansa's jaw dropped slightly, her grip on Brienne's hand tightened as the Lady before her continued to weep silently into her breakfast. She had no idea that Ser's Brienne and Jaime's relationship had gone anything past platonic friendship. She reset her mouth into a thin line and squeezed her hand, encouraging her to confide.

"The night following the Battle for the Dawn, we made love. We didn't expect it to happen, we were both well into our cups, but everything felt right. I gave up my virtue to him, I dishonoured my House for him, and for what? He did the 'honourable' thing and returned to his Lady sister and the unborn babe in her belly," she sobbed harder, a whimper escaping her lips, "And now? Now he's… he's...dead," she finished, dissolving into tears, resting her head in her arms, her shoulders shaking with each wracking sob.

Sansa's mouth went dry, her thumb that was stroking Brienne's hand froze in horror.

 _ _He's dead? Jaime Lannister is dead? How? When? Why?__ The questions raced around Sansa's head as if horses at the joust, none of them appropriate to ask her friend right now.

Picking up her jaw, Sansa stood, gathering her skirts and swept around the trestle table to sit beside Brienne, sweeping a slender arm around her friend's broad shoulders, drawing her head into the crook of her shoulder, the knight's platinum blonde locks spilling over her liege lady's chest, mingling with the rose gold crown of curls cascading down Sansa's front.

"I received a raven this morning, My Lady. From Kings Landing," her words were soft and sombre, already knowing what Sansa was going to ask, "Cersei signed the note herself."

Sansa swallowed her hatred of the woman and squeezed her arm,

"I cannot express the words, Brienne, I am shocked, please, pray tell, how did he... pass?" Sansa asked, dropping her other hand to Brienne's lap and squeezing her leg.

"It was her," Brienne replied, the venom in her voice oozing from her voice, "She had him put to death."

Tears pricked Sansa's blue eyes, the shock of Brienne's words stunning her to silence.

__Cersei is a mad bitch, but she killed Jaime? Her beloved brother? The father to her children? Her unborn babe? Why?_ _

Sansa knew she would never know, and Brienne would be forever unsure of the reasons why her love was murdered by his twin sister. Sansa's heart squeezed, her stomach jumped into her mouth as her arms tightened around her grieving friend. The tears rolled down Brienne's cheeks, her face was red, and her whole body quaked into Sansa's arms, her hands clutched her stomach as if it were about to burst out of her skin.

"Brienne, I know it means nothing now, but you are welcome in Winterfell for as long as you need," Sansa cooed into the top of Brienne's head, "Treat the place as your home, for it is now."

Brienne lifted her head, her arms still wrapped around Sansa's waist, and thanked her graciously, great fat tears storming from the corners of her own eyes, her eyes the colour of the fabled sapphires from the Isle of her forefathers.

"My dear Sansa, you are too kind, I am grateful for your hospitality, a disgraced lady of a great House such as mine deserves much less than you offer."

"Nonsense, Ser Brienne. You are a great friend to House Stark and the North, you are welcome in this land as long as there is breath in my body."  
Brienne gathered her dignity, and stood, leaving her untouched breakfast on the table, making her excuses to Sansa, and striding from the hall, her head held aloft, her stride purposeful, her eyes leaking silently down her cheeks. Sansa stared at her back, thinking how she would feel if she was in her place. She felt empty and scared, vulnerable, like a frightened deer. She suddenly thought of Podrick, her own heart flying into her mouth causing her throat to close as if she could not breathe.

Sansa flew up from her seat, knowing that she needed to leave the room. She almost ran from the Great Hall, knowing exactly where to find him.

** **Podrick** **

"Hey, __Ser Podrick__ , what'you mooning over, boy?" the captain of the guard stared directly at the young Knight who sat, absent mindedly, polishing his sword, humming a tune to himself. He looked up from his work as he heard his name, the crimson creeping up from his neck to his ears.

"Er, ummm, I'm just sharpening my sword captain, no mooning over here, Ser," he replied stiffly, lowering his head.

But of course he was mooning, it had been a fortnight since their night together, and he was missing __her__.

As the other knights exited the barracks ready for their guard duties, Podrick looked up at them, wishing that his life was as easy as theirs, not having to guard the secrets that he did. He scraped the whetstone at an angle, from hilt to tip before buffing the polish cloth over the steel until he could see his own brown eyes, staring blankly back at him from the blade.

He was permanently assigned to guard the Lady of Winterfell. He did not know if that had been due to his rank, or if his Liege Lady had personally assigned him such, but he wanted to prove he was worthy of his role.

He felt he was, he loved Sansa, he would die a thousand times for her, but a part of him felt that his evening indiscretion with the fair Lady, naught but a fortnight ago, negated his worthiness.

 _ _Stupid, stupid, stupid.__ He inwardly beat himself up for his stupidity. What had he been thinking? Of course he had not been thinking, he had been at the full mercy of Sansa, his Lady, his Queen.

The cloth he had been rubbing over the steel began to split into shreds in his hands, however he had not even noticed.

There, in the smoky candlelight of the braziers stood Lady Sansa, her braided hair dishevelled, her breathing erratic from exertion. She breathed heavily, her delicate hands clutching her waist, her chest heaving under the bodice of her dress.

She looked as if she had been crying, her delicate pale face pink and blotchy and yet still as beautiful as it had been in the dawn light on their first morning waking up together.

"My Lady, what is wrong?" he asked in earnest, his arms reaching out for her, her body falling forwards into his strong outstretched arms.

"Ser Jaime," she clutched her heart in her hands, "he, he's dead, and Brienne, she's..."

She needn't have continued, Podrick knew how his colleague felt about their previous commander, and his heart squeezed. Immediately thinking of his own love for the beautiful redhead in his arms, he clutched her close to his chest, burying his nose in her auburn locks.

Her heartache was killing him and he held her as her shuddering sobs engulfed her lithe frame. His arms encircled hers easily, his fingertips gliding over her back and through her silken locks as she wept into his shoulder.

"Shhh, its alright Sansa, shhhh, I'm here." he soothed, stroking her hair and kissing the snow white skin that peaked above the shoulders of her dress sleeves.

Her weight suddenly collapsed into his embrace, his strong arms holding her upright under her arms. They sank to the cobbled floor, Podrick leaned his back against the wall and lay his Lady love, his Queen in his lap and held her whilst her heart broke in two. He was confused, he knew why his Lady would feel such sorrow for her friend, but did not understand why the news had affected her so.

He continued to stroke her hair, closing his eyes, letting the warmth of the nearby brazier warm them, tucking his grey white Stark cloak around her shoulders. He hummed lightly as his fingers entwined around her curled locks, brushing out her silken strands, letting the feeling soothe him whilst he began to sing a lullaby to Sansa.

 _ _"High in the halls of the kings who are gone__  
Jenny would dance with her ghosts  
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found  
And the ones who had loved her the most

 _ _The ones who'd been gone for so very long__  
She couldn't remember their names  
They spun her around on the damp old stones  
Spun away all her sorrow and pain

__And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave  
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave_ _

__They danced through the day__  
And into the night through the snow that swept through the hall  
From winter to summer then winter again  
'Til the walls did crumble and fall

 _ _And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave__  
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave  
And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave  
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave"

"That was beautiful, Podrick," she raised her head, looking deeply into his chocolate stare, "beautiful, but so sad. You have a remarkable voice." The tears streamed silently down her face as she took in the sight of her knight, every fibre of his being drank in by his Lady's unrelenting gaze.

"My mother would sing it to me when I was naught but a babe in arms, and it would soothe my tears, even when I saw no joy in sight. I wished to share it with you, hoping it would bring you some comfort." he finished, taking her head in his hands, and caressing the tear soaked hair away from her face, before pressing a chastened kiss to her eyes, savouring their salty taste on the tip of his tongue.

Sansa gasped at his touch, the intimacy of his warm mouth on her eyes, her face, her mouth, catching her breath in her throat as she reached up and took his mouth with hers, pressing a small, wet kiss to his lips.

Podrick captured her lips with his, holding her inclined head in his arms, melting into his Lady.

He scooped her up in his arms easily as if she was a child, and strode purposefully towards Sansa's chambers, cradling his Queen in his arms, periodically pressing soft kisses to her forehead. They met nobody on their path to her chambers, neither of them really caring a jot if they were spotted. Podrick kicked the oak door open, silently thanking the Gods that he had dismissed Ser William from his post that night and laid her gently on the bed, kissing away her still flowing tears at her cheeks.

"Podrick, my dear Podrick, I heard what you said, you know, and I want you to know, I feel the same for you." She looked into his eyes, sweeping his charcoal locks out of his eyes as she spoke.

"You do?" he gasped, struggling to make his mouth form the words properly, his words raspy, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"I do," she confirmed, smiling through her tears, "I love you. I have tried for so many years to tell myself that the love I once dreamed of, the love I read about, that I sang about, that my mother and old nan told me about was naught but a myth. After all of the hurt and pain I suffered through my first betrothal to that snake, Joffrey and at the hands of my second husband, Ramsay," she swallowed the burning bile that was rising in her throat at his name, "I genuinely thought that true love wasn't real. But it is, because I see, feel, smell, touch, and taste your love when you bestow it upon me. I feel brand new, like the tortures of my past are erased when I am in your arms. I feel invincible, with you by my side. That is real love." she sighed, looking up at Pod from under her auburn lashes. "That was the love I saw in Brienne's soul for Ser Jaime, and she lost him. I don't ever want to lose you."

Podrick melted into her gaze, clearly overwhelmed by her admission. He knelt down, taking her lips in his, thanking the gods for bringing her into his life. "I love you Sansa, I will make sure that I spend the rest of my life by your side, making you feel safe, loved and invincible, if you would let me, my lady?"

She looked up sleepily into his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted, "I would, Pod, I would."

He kissed her, rolling her over in his arms and pressing his chest to her back. He buried his nose in her mane, allowing the soft aroma of pine, lilac and rose to lull him to slumber, the soft melody of Jenny and her ghosts playing on his full lips.

"I never want you to leave," Sansa breathed out.

"Never," Podrick replied, smiling into her hair


	20. Chapter 20

**Jaime**

_How the fuck did I end up back in this God’s Forsaken shit hole?_

Atop the chalk cliffs overlooking King’s Landing, Jaime sat upon his white steed, cooing and calming the jittery gelding as he surveyed through narrowed green eyes, the sprawling peninsula before him. The whitewashed buildings glinted innocently in the warm winter sun, the familiar disarray of terracotta roofs, narrow cobbled streets and market stalls, were bustling with life, tiny little ants to Jaime, going about their business, probably not a care in the world. He felt a pang of jealousy, deep in his chest.

_Oh h_ _ow I envy the common folk their_ _ignorance._

He knew it was there, how could it not be, its red stone edifice protruding almost perversely from the glittering sea at the very south eastern spit, perched impossibly atop Aegon’s high hill. He fought with himself to look at it, his hatred of it and all it stood for bubbling to the surface, making him feel physically sick. All manner of horrible events had occurred in the Red Keep. He’d had his fill of the death, destruction, depravity and debauchery that filled the halls of it. He had witnessed the death of Kings, the deaths of all of his children, and the destruction of his family in those stifling walls. He hated it and wanted so badly to turn tail and run from it, in any direction, he did not care, and yet he knew that there was no avoiding it. He was drawn to it, like a moth to the flame, feeling its pull on his chest, his stomach and his one remaining hand, as if the structure was dragging him home.

Reluctantly, he squeezed his legs and clicked his tongue, encouraging the horse to move onwards, finding the dust, shit-strewn road again, leading to the western gate of the city – appropriately named the Lion’s Gate.

 _Obviously a decision made by the small council without King Robert present._ He knew exactly who would have proposed that name.

As the cream stone walls rose into view and the pillars of the Lion’s Gate towered over him forebodingly, Jaime was struck with the overpowering stench of shit, sex and decay, the reek that he once vowed to himself would never assault his nose again, the urge to vomit strong again.

He had been forced by his sister to allow their children to grow up in this pox ridden whore of a city. They had fought about it countless times, Jaime pleading with her to ask King Robert to school them and allow them to enjoy their formative years in the peace and beauty of Casterley Rock with their father, Lord Tywin. Of course she had refused. She would not allow their children out of her sight, much less entrust them to their father. Besides, King Robert would no doubt refuse, he was already suspicious of the Lannister’s anyhow, and would never agree to permit his heirs to grow up in the heart of the Lion’s den. They needed to be at court, to understand how to rule an empire of seven, not hide away from their inevitable responsibilities. One day they would be the succession of his Baratheon line, the line he had slaughtered thousands for, the line he had tried to wipe out a dynasty for, and they needed to know how to keep their clutches on those kingdoms, lest they fall apart.

Of course, unbeknownst to King Robert, his line was a joke, he had no legitimate children to speak of, the only blood Baratheon line falling to the handful of bastards who had evaded the cull at the beginning of Joffrey’s reign. The secret of his Golden fawn’s evaded him until his death, and even when Tywin and the other Lords Baratheon had walked the earth, those who knew of their true parentage were deemed a threat to the throne, and were silenced, the secret on their lips.

First Lord Arryn and then Lord Stark, and then countless others were murdered, all to cover a lie of Jaime and Cersei’s making.

He shook his head in shame, and was almost blinded by the sun’s reflection off his golden hand; gold, the colour of their heads and of their shrouds. One by one their line of Lions had fallen, just as that rotten, cursed maegi had foretold. Joffrey’s was a death of his own making, the lad was a cruel and vicious boy, who had enemies at every turn. His death at the hands of the crone, Tyrell was inevitable; he was a liability, a headstrong, evil boy who would have destroyed the realm and taken down House Tyrell with him. The swollen, purple, blood-stained pallor of his natural death mask was unforgettable, the image forever burned onto the back of Jaime’s eyelids whenever he closed his eyes. His death had been horrid, choking and vomiting on his own tongue, his throat swelled, his airways constricted, violently gasping for air until he could no more. He had deserved it and the whole of the realm knew he had deserved it too, as few had come to mourn the boy king lying in state. More mourners were present by Tywin’s body than Joffrey’s.

Then there was Myrcella; dear, sweet, beautiful Myrcella who was robbed of her life by the Dornish Sand Snakes, Ellaria Sand to be specific, as retribution for the killing of Oberyn Martell at Tyrion’s trial for the murder of Lord Tywin. Hers had been a cruel death, her life snuffed out as an eye for an eye. Jaime had just told her that he was her father. She had rejoiced, and the future between father and daughter had looked rosy. At the end of her short suffering, Jaime had held her precious body, and had kissed her perfect jade eyes closed when her breathing had stilled. She had been quite beautiful in death, the affects of the poison was said to induce a catastrophic brain haemorrhage, not so indifferent to the way Joff had died, however his sweet little angel merely looked as if she had fallen asleep in his arms; a small trickle of her life’s blood had seeped from her nose and had been the only way to tell that something was not right. Her funeral in the sept was a magnificent event, mourners flocked for days to pay their respects. Many from Dorne, who had loved the princess as their own and who had openly chastised the actions of Prince Oberyn’s former paramour. Beautiful from her first day, until her last.

Lastly, Tommen. A boy who was never meant to sit the Iron Throne, was overcome by his Kingship and underprepared to face the poison it brought him, spewing out from the mouths of family and advisors alike, hoodwinked by the High Sparrow of the Faith Militant. His reign had been short and troubled, his marriage to his brother’s widow short-lived but happy. However the loss of his mother, his wife and his power to the hands of the Faith had ultimately proved his undoing and he had left his tower cell, for the gardens below via his window. The fall had been long, the suffering short.

Jaime had been in Riverrun, battling the Black Fish of House Tully when he had heard of his son's death. His joy of conquering the stronghold for his King was cut short upon hearing of it. His one remaining son, gone. His joy had once again turned to ashes in his mouth. He had ruined many a sword that day, screaming and crying, unleashing his pure unadulterated rage on the branches of an old gnarled oak that had stood for centuries, standing almost mockingly in place, an insult to Jaime and his last remaining child who had only stood for ten and six name days.

He had rode hard for Kings Landing once his senses had returned, seeking to mourn his son and comfort his sister, the newly crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. He had found a block of ice where once his sister had stood, a woman so hell bent on winning the game of thrones that she saw her son’s suicide as an act of betrayal. He both loved and hated the woman from that day forward. Still so infatuated by her, but so loathing of the monster within.

He had stood by and watched as the smug cunt King of the Iron Islands had sailed to her side, as he humiliated the Queen with his bold designs on her in front of court, watching on impotent, as the self proclaimed ‘King’ had allowed himself the freedom to cast his sexual insinuations against the pair without fear of rebuttal. Had Cersei been privy to his deviance, she would have had his head decorating the walls of the Keep.

No, only Jaime had had to suffer in silence, yet again, as another sexually depraved scrote laid claim to his Lady Sister. She held no mind of the situation of course, she would treat the union as another string to her bow, a new way to seize power for herself and make allies against the Targaryen Queen.

She would continue fucking her brother behind her husband’s back, as she had done for decades, and Jaime being the obedient and loyal servant he was would carry on without regard for his own feelings.

He had not disappointed his Queen thus far, warming her bed on many occasions as a matter of fact, long after her coronation, no longer seeing it prudent to be careful or clandestine. Once Lord Greyjoy was on the scene, their amorous exchanges lessened, their relationship became strained, only briefly reignited at Cersei’s announcement of another Lannister bastard in her belly, which she had used as a weapon of course. She had ensnared Euron Greyjoy, taking him to her bed to avoid any question as to the parentage of the babe, agreeing to marry him to legitimise the child as heir to the Iron Throne, just as she had done of King Robert Baratheon.

Her tenacity and her blinkered view of the world had been the reason Jaime had left her. They had all seen that caged monster that had come from the North, and yet Cersei continued to serve her own interests over the good of the realm. He had already seen through her, but her abandonment of her people was what had sent Jaime over the edge. She had stood with him in the map room, admitting that she had sent Tyrion to the frozen north with a promise of aid, when in fact she had sent her little brother to his almost certain death without the Lannister forces, the Iron Fleet or the Golden Company, as back up. She had expected him to accept it, like he had always done. However, he had swallowed his pride instead and torn his heart to pieces leaving her. She had threatened his life, of course, cold ruthless ice queen that she is, and yet it took every ounce of his strength, his self restraint and his belief to leave her, knowing that the army of the dead, should they thwart the North, would soon be knocking on their castle doors. He departed to save the people of Westeros, his little brother, and his friends, believing that he in turn would be saving his sister, their unborn babe, and doing the honourable thing.

Adrenaline after battle, deep-seated love and alcohol had fuelled the dishonouring of his former captor however. It had been a mistake, his treatment of Lady Ser Brienne of Tarth abhorrent and regrettable. The taking of her maidenhead had been out of character for him, he knew that it had been wrong for him to go through with it, although she had given it up to him freely, and yet in doing so, he had felt that he had brought dishonour to her, himself, his true love and their child.

No matter how bitter he felt about it all however, he still found that leaving the former maiden of Tarth was one of the most difficult decisions he’d ever had to make. Their bond had been strong, their feelings for each other unquestionable, and had they been together in another life, then maybe they would have stood a chance at happiness.

Sadly, it was honour that led him to return to this cess pit of a city, regardless of the hit that Cersei had out on him.

_I_ _had to do the right and honourable thing, after all, what is a knight without honour?_

His progress to the Gate was cautious, Jaime had become wary of the stillness in his surroundings. It was too quiet.

_Where is everyone? This is the main gate out of the city leading to the King’s Road, it is usually rammed with tradespeople, farmers and beggars pleading for access into and out of the city. There are usually guards taking names and papers… Hold on, where are the guards?_

Jaime stopped his mount in its tracks, feeling a chill crawl up to the nape of his neck from the base of his spine, the plentiful goose prickles erupting all over his arms. Cersei would never leave this gate unguarded. There had to be something wrong.

He kicked his heels into the steed, and bolted for the entrance to the city, the view somewhat different without the Sept of Baelor, his mind racing, his heart thumping out of his chest with panic. He had to get to Cersei.

Had he noticed the guard to his right suddenly run out of the shadows beyond the gate with an oar aimed straight for his face, Jaime probably would not have ridden headlong into it.


	21. Chapter 21

** Ok, this portion of the story is about to take a darker turn. It gets a bit graphic, but then I have rated this story as an M for a reason (not just for getting it on!) I hope you enjoy it. I really enjoyed having a bash at writing Cersei! **

**Cersei**

A Dornish red had never tasted so sweet to Cersei as it did now. She thought of her prisoners, or prisoner now, languishing in the dungeons with only the company of her dear departed daughter, as she swilled around the deliciously sweet and tangy contents of her wine glass. She allowed a girlish laugh to escape her stained lips, her top lip curling into a smirk, the crinkles at her eyes deepening in her glee.

_Ah, justice is sweet. I will enjoy watching that bitch lose her mind over her daughter’s slow decay._

Decay was already evident. The new room she had locked them in was airless and windowless, but filled to the brim with torches, guards entering every few hours to replace them. She wanted her captive disorientated and always able to see her rotten daughter. Her once beautiful frame had distorted, her tissues had bloated, and her pallor, once the creamy caramel of the southron peoples, now the pale grey-blue of death. The smell was disgusting and cloying, like meat gone bad, curdled milk and a hint of rotting fish. But to Cersei, it smelled like justice, like winning.

Her favourite part was the little sand snake’s face. It had been turned up to stare unseeingly at her mother by her guards, the skin on her eyelids and around her mouth had shrunk back revealing the whites of her eyeballs, her teeth and her gums, her mouth set cruelly into a creepy smile. Yes that had delighted her no end when she visited only this afternoon.

Her guards, upon her visits to the cells, delightedly regaled her with tales of Ellaria’s screams in the mornings when she would wake to find her daughter in a new state of decay. Sometimes they would grotesquely reposition her body when Ellaria was asleep to frighten her in the morning, to play with her mind, to break the woman piece by piece until she was begging for her own demise once more, a demise that she would never be granted. Cersei wanted that woman to live out her days in that cell with her daughter for what she had done to her beloved Myrcella.

She finished her glass in one mouthful, preparing to pour another to take with her to her bed chambers for the evening, when her advisor and Hand, Lord Qyburn entered her solar, unannounced.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Qyburn?” she bit, enunciating each syllable, her jaw set firmly, her teeth slightly bared. She only looked up at him as she said his name, a smile on her lips, but not in her eyes.

“The Gold Cloaks inform me that they have captured someone at the Lion’s Gate. They believe the person to be of some...value to you, your Grace.” Qyburn replied, untroubled by the stern reproach he had just been given by his Queen.

“Oh do they now, so important as to disturb me in my own private quarters at this late of an hour. That was quite presumptuous of them,” she glared at Qyburn now, the smile leaving her features, a look of annoyance replacing it.

“I assure you, your Grace, you will be most intrigued by your late and most unexpected guest,” he finished with a flourish, still unphased by his Queens less than warm reception towards her closest advisor.

She slammed down her goblet on the mahogany desk, some contents spilling over the sides as she did so, before putting a hand to her head, a low growl escaping her lips.

“Oh very well, bring it in.”

“Guards, please bring the prisoner before his Queen.”

She turned as the prisoner was hauled noisily into the room, and unceremoniously dumped on the cold marble floor in front of her. She smoothed down her dress over her ever growing bump before turning to see her brother curled up in a ball on the floor in front of her, his face bloody and mangled, his nose evidently broken. Behind him stood what was left of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, who grabbed Jaime violently by the collar of his shirt, scratching at the skin of his neck, leaving a jagged trail of blood in the wake of his long, dirty fingernails.

Jaime was forced to face his sister, held up by the sheer strength of his sister’s most fearsome guard. He looked into her eyes, through his dirty golden hair that had matted with blood, as if searching for the love that she once held for him in them. She gave him nothing, and he looked like a dejected man, whose heart had just fallen out of his arse.

“I had wondered when you would crawl back to me, brother.”

“You know me to well my sweet sister, I could never resist your charms for long,” he replied saccharine, trying to appear charming but failing miserably as he spat out several teeth. He tried to smile at her, but found that the swelling around his jaw would not allow such movement.

“And what about your reception makes you think that I will honour you with charm, dear brother?”

“I had hoped you would have put on a little spread for me, it is an awfully long ride from Winterfell, as you’ll remember.”

Cersei exhaled sharply, her patience wearing thin, the venom in her rising like bile in her throat.

“You arrived unannounced, how was I supposed to ready the castle for your… heroic return?”

“And yet the Gold Cloaks knew exactly when I would be arriving, such a coincidence, truly” he tutted, clicking his tongue behind his remaining top teeth.

“You are a wanted man, brother, your crimes insurmountable to the Crown, of course my Gold Cloaks knew when you would be arriving, they’ve been watching out for you for days now.”

“How could they possibly know I would be coming back to you?” Jaime gave her look of mock puzzle; she wanted to tear that look right off his smug face.

“Call it, intuition,” she retorted, narrowing her eyes at him.

“I think you missed me Cersei,” he desperately tried to school his misshapen features into a sarcastic grin, and failed once again, the meaning not lost on Cersei however. She raised her eyebrow at him, all mock flirtation gone from her tone.

“Think what you like Jaime, your position of safety within this household is tenuous at best, what with you being a traitor and all. I know that you know that I sent Ser Bronn to kill you and our disgraceful little maggot of a brother. I should have known that there would have been an upper limit to our dear sell-sword's loyalties. He will pay with his life of course. As for you, you will face justice for your treason against your Queen. Your dear son, before his death, abolished trials by combat, so you cannot fight your way out of this one, brother,” she stalked towards Jaime, like a shadow cat stalking its prey, before kneeling down to his level, grabbing a fist full of his hair and yanking his head up to meet hers.

“As there were plenty of witnesses to your treason, I do not see fit to have any sort of trial, it would be an...expensive waste of the Crown’s interests. I do hope that thought comforts you tonight in your cell.” She motioned to Ser Gregor to take her brother to the dungeons, shooing him away as he was led out of the door of his sister’s solar.

“Oh and Jaime, do enjoy the warmth of the South tonight. It must have been so cold up there in the north with only the dead and that beast of a woman that you left your Queen and your family for. You owe me a great debt brother, and a Lannister always pays his debts.”

“What would you have of me sweet sister, name it and I will give it to you,” Jaime replied in desperation, the earlier bravado extinguished, the agony of his hair being yanked out of his head at the root making him sweat profusely, his breathing shallow and fast, his eyes bulging out of the sockets.

She turned, from her desk, her wine goblet in hand once more.

“Your life.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Jaime**

The trip to the cells was as excruciatingly painful as Jaime had expected it to be at the hands of his former Knight, Ser Gregor. He had been dragged, kicked, gouged and eventually thrown down the stairs to the dungeons, hitting every step that his tensed body made contact with on the way, the sound of crunching bones in his arms, legs, ribs and pelvis echoing along the dank corridors of the dungeons.

He came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, landing on his already broken nose, letting out a primal scream of agony, every joint, every muscle in his broken body screaming back at him. He lifted his head to look upon the Mountain, a man who had defied death, and wondered with horror at what dark and evil sorcery his sister had allowed to bring him back from the dead.

His huge boots boomed against each step, his stride slow and purposeful, the fear in Jaime rising once more.

Within seconds he was at the bottom of the stairs, the toes of Clegane’s boots taking up Jaime’s entire field of vision. He gulped.

The connection between the Mountain’s boot and Jaime’s nose reverberated around the room. His nose completely shattered, his neck twisted awkwardly to the side, jarring his shoulders and his head so that he could not turn it without searing pain. The ringing in his ears was several decibels above unbearable, and a haze covered his vision descending over his open eyelids, leaving him unsure if his brain was conjuring this unnatural screen or the blood from his nose had splashed back into his eyes.

He was picked up bodily again, and hurled down the corridor, landing with a sickening clang of metal against stone; his golden hand had hit the floor, and had come apart from his stump, where it had started to roll down the next set of stairs to the lower dungeons, clanging against each step it hit.

After what seemed like an eternity, Jaime eventually heard a scrape of metal against metal, and the high pitched whine of a rusty door creaking open, scraping against the rough hewn stone floor. He was tossed inside, and the door slammed behind him, the monstrous footsteps of his assailant echoing down the corridor away from him, getting quieter and quieter.

He hurt everywhere, nowhere appeared to have survived unscathed. He pushed his blood sodden hair out of his eyes, squinting and focussing hard on his surroundings, trying to find a position comfortable enough to lie in and wait for the agony to end. At the corner of the room he spotted a straw, piss stained mattress set away from the ground on an iron bunk, suspended from the wall by two chains. He decided that this would just have to do.

He hauled himself to his knees by the makeshift bed, and threw himself onto it, struggling to stifle a groan of pain as his bruised back made contact with the under stuffed mattress. Using his hands, he grasped the chains and pulled with all of his might to bring his legs up onto the bed with him.

He stared up at the iron grey ceiling as he tried to calm his breathing, his deep panting breaths inhibited by the sharp pain in his chest. He recalled the way the shackles suspended from the ceiling blew in the breeze rolling in through the bars of his window.

_At least I have a window._

He’d be sentenced at dawn, and he could at least observe the passage of time  whilst he waited, knowing that his brain would not allow him the sweet relief of sleep.

H e closed his eyes, trying to position his body in a way so as to minimise the pain from his wounds, but found there was no such position, so he settled for the night, cramped  and broken from his beatings, trying to allow rest or death, he did not care  which at this point, to envelope him in their comfort ing  embrace.

His dreams were confusing, vivid and horrendous.

He was  falling through darkness, the ear-splitting shriek of rusty metal scraping in his ears was his lullaby, before he hit the ground. Before he knew it, he was up and  running, running for his life through  what looked like the cavernous corridors of  Winterfell, his sword clutched in his hand, the blade dripping with cold, black blood. He could hear the scraping of bony feet against the stone floors of the corridor behind him, their pace quickening as they detected him. 

He glanced over his shoulder, daring himself to have a glimpse at his would be attacker, but saw nothing. Buoyed by  the distance between him and them, he increased his pace, and ran around another corner, skidding slightly on the old rushes, but soon righting himself, sprinting its length. He had not bargained for the partially decayed body that lay around the next corner to suddenly halt his progress by tripping him all of his length, making him crash into the ground,  his bloodied sword twisting out of his grasp . 

A skeletal hand had caught his ankle, and as he attempted to get back up, its eyes suddenly sprang open, the unnatural blue hue of its irises staring straight back at him. He felt the grip on his ankle tighten s l ightly, but one swift kick released its grip.  Cursing at having be e n slowed down,  and the loss of his sword,  the sound of the oncom ing  tsunami of  the  dead  w as ever louder in his ears, and he turned tail and ran again, ignoring the screaming in his lungs for air, and the fatigue in his muscles for energy. 

He took a peek behind him again, hoping that he would indeed see nothing, but the sight before his eyes took the breath right out of him.

A large group of the dead of varying degrees of decay were sprinting towards him full tilt, limbs flying everywhere, brilliant blue eyes trained on him, determined and steely. However that wasn’t the sight that unnerved him so.

The leader of the pack was enormous, a large shining greatsword swinging from her hand, her hair a shock of yellow plastered to her face, her skin as pale as fresh fallen snow, and her own unnatural blue eyes glinting at him determinedly.

To look at her, she would almost look as if from the world of the living, but the gaping hole in her chest where he heart should have been told a different tale.

She skidded to a halt  at the sight of him , holding out a hand to stop her fellow soldiers, her eyes searching his,  a look of recognition clouding  them . Jaime stopped in his tracks, mesmerised by the woman stood in front of him, a shade of his former friend, and one time lover, Ser Brienne. His eyes brimmed with tears at the sight of her, his mouth pleading to the Gods that this wasn’t real, that they hadn’t gotten her. 

She stared at him, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion, as if trying to understand what he was sayi ng.  She saw the tears rolling down his face, and lifted an opalescent hand to her eye, wiping away a small bead of moisture from the outer corner, staring at it on her finger, before letting the teardrop fall to the floor in front of her.  She stood motionless, rooted to the spot, the dead behind her, watching, waiting for her signal to continue their strike, their eyes boring into the back of her head, their hands caressing their weapons  hungrily .  No such signal came. Her gaze upon the floor was relentless, the confusion clouding her glowing blue eyes, her bloodless lips pursed into a thin line,  focussing on the teardrop on the ground, her expired mind desperately searching its hidden depths for a memory that was just on the edges of her periphery. 

_Please remember me._

If she didn’t remember, Jaime knew he was done for. They were too close, too numerous for him to fight.  He had no sword, only  speed going for him, but he could not outrun them forever. 

Finally, after what seemed like an age, she squared her body, standing with her feet shoulder width apart, her hands by her sides, her head down. Jaime breathed. She had remembered him, she was going to save him and the relief emanated from him in waves.

She looked up at him, and smiled. No.  N ot, a smile.  More of a smirk.  Her eyes glinted wickedly. She was gone.  L ost to him. 

The a drenaline that surged through him, telling his feet to run, was the only reason he had not crumbled into a wreck at her feet and let her animated corpse delight in killing him.

The screams behind him as he paced the corridors of the great castle once more filled his senses, great wet tears silently streamed down his reddened cheeks as he pushed on, heading for the tower that housed the Stark’s personal chambers, knowingly heading straight for a dead end. 

_I don’t remember Winterfell being this expansive._

He ran at the uneven, rickety stone steps, taking them two at a time, straining his ears for the sounds of anything living, the screams of the dead were shrill, and otherworldly, unlike anything he’d ever heard before.  He heard only wraith like shrieks behind him, the Tower ahead was quiet  and deathly  still.

He knew that he was racing towards a dead end. If he had found the correct tower, he knew that there was a way down from the window of the Liege Lord and Lady’s bed chamber, but he had to be accurate, he had to be fast or it would mean his certain death. Death was afore him and behind him, it mattered not as he had little option but to chance his plan now. He reached the great oaken door and ran headlong into it, charging into the bed chamber of the Starks. 

His brow furrowed in confusion as soon as he felt the heat from the fire place hit him in the face like a slap, w renching him from his  delirium.

_What the fuck?_

His feet skidded to a halt on the smooth marble floor, his eyes took in the golden gilded pillars, the gold filigree thorny roses and vines snaking up the walls and the Lannister Lions decorating the stained glass window panes of the room. 

_Marble? Gold? Lions? Where the hell am I?_

Panic coursed through his veins as he spun wildly around, his pulse audible in his head, drinking in the sight of his Queen Sister’s bed chamber.  He reached for his sword at his belt, only to feel an empty scabbard at his hip.

_Nooo, nooo this isn’t happening, I’m not here! This can’t be real!  
_ He brought his hand to his face hard, trying to gauge if he was merely dreaming again, but his cold and clammy palms felt real enough on his heated cheeks. 

He didn’t notice the candle being lit beside the bed, the startled Queen sitting bolt upright in bed, her breaths coming hard and fast, fear etched upon her face.

“You made a big mistake evading my custody, brother,” she panted, her eyes flickering at something over his shoulder, “You will die tonight instead, GUARDS! SEIZE HIM!” she screamed, jumping out of bed and crouching behind the frame until Jaime was safely ensconced in the grip of her guards, his arms raised in defeat, his exhausted expression fearful of his sister, but too tired to fight his fate.

It was then he heard it. The thud of enormous booted feet on stone and marble echoing down the corridor. Jaime’s heart dropped to his feet as  T he Mountain strode into the room, stopping before the Queen, bowing respectfully to her, awaiting her command. Cersei reached out from behind the bed frame, and placed her tiny quivering palm upon the chest of her greatest Knight,  searching his cold, blood shot eyes, beseechingly, almost thanking him for his protection.

“Ser Gregor, Kill him. Kill Ser Jaime of House Lannister,” she asked of him dispassionately, as if he was a stranger, and not a member of her own house.

Jaime collapsed in the arms of his  captors , his eyes wide, pleading with his sister to change her mind, sobbing hysterically as his tear pricked eyes took in Cersei, the frightened doe - eyed look she gave Clegane gone, replaced with a self-satisfied smirk.

“No Cersei, don’t do this, not to me, I loved you, I LOVED YOU!”

“And I loved you too brother, right up until you betrayed me for her.” 

“I’m back for you, for us, for our babe, we have a future now, I did that for us, believe me!”

“No I have a future, my heir has a future. Our future has no need for you brother, I have no use for liars in my court. I’m doing you a favour brother, I am finally giving you your freedom. Take it. Good bye Jaime Lannister.”

He could no longer see her, the bulk of The Mountain taking up his entire vision. His eyes travelled up the giant man’s frame to his helmeted head, his breaths rasping in his throat as he saw the glinting black eyes of death staring down at him. Jaime sank to his knees, his number was up. He could not see anything but flashing images of his life before this moment, images of blonde hair and green eyes filled his vision, the long summer of his youth, his brothe r, a blonde beauty  and his children, swimming into view, their smiling faces beckoning him towards them, their eyes comforting him. He felt giant hands wrap around his head, the pressure on his skull immense, but the comfort  of Myrcella and Tommen’s smiles provided sweet relief from pain. Behind them, the blonde beauty and his brother looked upon him sadly, his green and her blue eyes tearful, their smiles enduring, their heads nodding, letting him go and be with his children.

The beauty was mouthing something, her eyes glassy, a familiar tear rolling down her cheek  as Jaime gazed upon the last face  h is dying mind conjured up. He understood. Brienne  soothed his eyes shut for the last time,  her  loving words echoing through Jaime’s soul as the Mountain press ed his thumbs deep into  his eye sockets.  There was no pain.

_I love you, Jaime Lannister._


End file.
